Losing the Wonder
by forestofmyown
Summary: While Alice is out to China, Hamish finds himself saddled with a very odd carrot top awaiting her return. How will Alice's family react to her apparent suitor and all the madness he brings with him, and Hamish deal with both their feelings for Alice? Eventual HatterXAlice. Hamish, Stayne, & Lowell centric.
1. Chapter 1

Hamish Ascot, for the first time in his life, really felt like he understood how Alice Kingsleigh felt under the scrutiny of a society that didn't understand her.

His mother was glaring down her nose at him from across the room, and he was struck by the fact that Alice had told him (more than once) that he often made that very same look at her when she was behaving "out of sorts," as he would put it. He held his own head as high as his dignity could manage, ignoring his mother's dissaproval as best he could (which was difficult, as his mother's dissaproval was not something he was used to bearing, but reflecting and enforcing).

It was just another testament to just how much Alice Kingsleigh had shaped his life that his mother would be the one giving him that look now.

He couldn't blame her, though. Hamish knew he must be loosing his own mind, allowing this strange man into his – their - home. But, all the same, the moment Alice's name had slipped through the rambling lips of the outrageous scottsman, Hamish had known there would be no turning the man out.

Not if he was a friend of Alice's.

And, despite a very embarrassing rejection in front of practically everyone, Hamish still couldn't shake his love for the young woman. She had, after all, been the woman he had thought he would spend his life with; a thought that had been instilled since early childhood.

Being rejected hadn't been something that had ever occurred to him - though, upon reflection of Alice's habit of doing everything that was unexpected, it should have. Or something along those lines.

He was giving himself a headache, and the odd man with the vibrant orange hair's nervous twitchings and ramblings wasn't helping.

"Please," Hamish cringed at his own politeness, as he was sure this strange man did not merit or even deserve it. _Only for Alice's friend, _he reminded himself. "Sir-" Realizing, belatedly, that he still didn't know his "guest's" name, he paused, waiting for it to be offered.

The man didn't seem to notice, and continued his ramblings, which, to Hamish's worry, were growing more and more vehement, and after that episode in the garden-

"-an i' i'nna doin me nau' good ta' _ezel _'ere ifin she made 'er choice, _naught for usal, _ef she be pickin' ya _slurvish _lot, e'en ef I bein plum _gallymoggers_ BUT NAH ENUF TA' TELL THA GIRL '_NUNZ' _SHUD A TOLD 'ER_ 'NUNZ'-"_

Growing very, very worried, Hamish clapped his hands loudly between himself and the growling man. "_Sir!_"

Instantly the man snapped his mouth shut, and Hamish could have sworn his eyes flashed – but then the pale stranger was smiling like a dumb child, trailing off lightly, "-nunz, scrum, size, fez...I'm fine."

_I most certainly believe you are not, sir_, Hamish thought to himself. But, then agian, he had heard many people speak the same of Alice, in whispers, and he, in his foolishness, had tried to protect her from herself and make her conform to "sane" standards. But Alice would not be supressed, for Alice was Alice, and would be Alice, and no other. Maybe he was the mad one, having tried to take that from her.

He was not going to even try it with what was shaping up to be Alice's mad friend.

Getting back to proper eticate (for Hamish knew nothing else), he replied, "Yes, well sir, I am Hamish Ascot. Might I have your name?"

The man stood, with none of his earlier nervousness or anger, and smoothly whipped his large, rather tattered top-hat from his head and bowed. "Tarrant Hightopp, Milliner to White Queen Mirana, of the High Court of Marmoreal, one Hero of Underland in respect to the Frabjous Day, humble servant of _The Alice_."

Hamish vaguely heard his mother's sharp intake of breath at the long and obviously distinguished title of the supposed madman before them, but he was more taken with the way Tarrant Hightopp had said Alice's name. Reverently, breathlessly, like it was a holy title, the sound a caress on his tips.

No one had ever spoken so highly of Alice in all of Hamish's life as this man had with only two words. Not even Charles Kingsleigh, who had adored his youngest daughter to no end and had dotted, with pride, on her and her eccentricies (most of which she had undoubtably inherited from him). Not Helen, who, despite doing her best to never tarnish the Kingsleigh family name, had never been one to take hearing any of her precious ones spoken ill of, even if she herself thought that her husband and her little girl where odd – that was something she loved about them both, even if they had frustrated her to no end.

No, the way this man's eyes sparkled as he repositioned his hat (with much unnecessary florish, but that could be expected of a hatter showing off his work, couldn't it?) and the way he obviously revered Alice made Hamish feel like his love paled in comparison – and Hamish had (agian, foolishly) once believed there was no man alive (God rest Mr. Kingsleigh's soul) who could or would ever love Alice as much as he did (though Mr. Ascot had once joked he'd give him a run for his money, for Hamish's father would always see Alice as his daughter, marriage or not).

But no, he shouldn't be jumping to conclusions so quickly. He'd barely learned the man's name, let alone his relationship with Alice – or even if they were referring to the same Alice (not that there was any real doubt that there were any other Alices about the area who would befriend such an...eccentric looking...and behaving...foreigner).

It was then that Hamish clicked his tiring emotions off and started sifting through the facts he'd just been given. His mother had been much quicker on the uptake than he.

Lady Ascot took a hesitant step forward, forcing a pleasantly curious smile and failing only slightly. "A milliner for royalty, are you Mr. Hightopp? I'm afraid I don't recall the country you spoke off, but as much as dear Alice travels-"

_So she's 'dear Alice' now, is she mother? _Hamish wanted to sigh at her petulance. His mother had never been too extremely keen on having Alice as Hamish's bride, though when faced with all the good it would do the family as presented by his father (for Alice Kingsleigh was a prize, to be sure – Lord Ascot hadn't always thought Charles Kingsleigh sane, but he had enough sense about him to know bringing his son with him on business trips to the Kingsleigh household couldn't _not _be beneficial, though he'd had no idea how true that would become) she'd warmed up to the 'arrangement' slightly. Everyone in his family, and even Alice's, to be honest, had just assumed that, since Alice was such an odd girl and she and Hamish had been friends since childhood, that he would always be the one with her, as he had always been (he hadn't bothered to correct them on the fact that, though he and Alice were always thought to play together, they had rarely spent any time together after they were left alone).

How wrong that had turned out to be.

But his thoughts were getting away with him again, as they often did when he thought of Alice (and only when he thought of Alice, for Hamish had been raised to be a serious man to balance out Alice's dreamery, and was not often taken with thoughtful fancies). His mother was listening closely to Mr. Hightopp's surprisingly innocent voice prattle on.

"-and now, I know I promised myself I'd be patient, but I just couldn't wait any longer, in case Alice had once again forgotten her own promise to come back, and I figured me breaking my promise to myself (since I'd never break a promise to Alice, so it was a good thing she'd had no part in it) was much better than Alice breaking hers, as she is Alice and as such is so frightfully good-hearted that I'm sure she would be very cross with herself over the whole matter, and as she is the Champion, she shouldn't be chastised for such things – not even by her own self, for no one would want to be chastised by the Champion, such a dishonorable punishment, and I'd hate to see Alice make herself cry, for she almost drowned Nivens once, crying so hard, but she wasn't much her own size then, and obviously didn't have her muchness about her, and Alice isn't hardly Alice without her muchness, Absolem agrees with me on this, and Absolem rarely agrees with anyone on anything even when they agree with him. And speaking of Absolem, he told me he found Alice out and about some six months ago, sailing and such. Sailing! Is there nothing Alice can't do?"

When the hatter actually paused, looking at them curiously, Hamish decided that this man was much more prone to talking than Alice was, but just as much of a scatterbrain, and he was going to need to keep him on track if they wanted to learn anything. Taking this opportunity, he asked politely, "Might I inquire as to how and when you met Alice, Mr. Hightopp?"

The other man slowly frowned. "I could be asking you the same thing. You say you know Alice, but I have no proof of that. And even if you do, Alice spoke as though she never much liked it here, so that means you must not have been very good to her. And as happy as I am that Alice came to Underland and I met her in all her great Alice-ness, Ah sorely wudna tolerate anaone who hasna made Alice's life anathin but the perfect it shuda been-"

Starting to recognize the growl of scottish brogue in the hatter's voice, Hamish quickly decided it was time to interrupt, eticate sacrificed for the better. "I'm afraid Alice is out sailing at the moment. She and my father are on a business trip to China, though they sent word last that they were on their way home. Still, it will be some weeks before they return."

Hamish locked eyes with Tarrant Hightopp and stared, shocked, as the man's eyes truly did turn colors while his face seemed to battle with his emotions. And then, suddenly, he was all innocent smiles again, gap-toothed and polite. "What's a week?"

Hamish thought that was an odd question, but he wasn't so ignorant of other cultures that he didn't realize they might not use the same words for things (though this was something that he probably should have learned before coming to England). "Seven days makes a week, sir."

The man's face twitched. "And how long is a day here, normally?"

Hamish's frown deepened slighlty. "Twenty-four hours."

Again, a twitch. "And an hour is..."

"Sixty minutes."

"And Time always runs on schedule here, not fickle or prone to dilly-dally?"

Now Hamish was worried. This was most definately not a normal question. "No, sir. Sixty minutes is always an hour, sixty seconds are always a minute, and there are always twenty-four hours in a day, as well as seven days in a week."

The hatter's smile fell, and his eyes dimmed. Even his clothes seemed to loose some of their outrageous pomp – but that just wasn't possible...

_"My father said he sometimes believed in six impossible things before breakfast."_

He remembered Alice's face as she'd said that, dancing in his arms and smiling, laughing melodically as she talked about what it would be like to fly. It had been precisely ten minutes after that that he had gotten down on one knee in that gazeboo...

...and it had been another ten after that when Alice had looked him in the eyes and said "_I'm sorry, Hamish. I can't marry you. You're not the right man for me. And there's that trouble with your digestion._"

(Really, what on earth had his digestion had to do with anything? Had she really had to bring that up?)

Was the idea that she could marry Hamish, live happily, that he _could _be the man for her been so impossible that even Alice couldn't have believed in it?

Hamish abruptly drew a loud breath up through his nose. Now wasn't the time to be thinking such things. He had a crazy man to worry about. And said crazy man was speaking distractedly.

"So Alice won't be back..."

"For at least two more weeks, maybe more." Hamish finished, eyeing the now sad milliner. He looked so downtrodden, it was almost pitiable.

But then-

"Then I suppose I'll just go to Alice's home and wait there until she returns!" He pipped up, looking chipper at the prospect.

Hamish flushed. "You can't just go up to the Kingsleigh's and demand to stay there and wait for her!"

The other man frowned. "Why not?"

"It's not polite and it's not proper." Hamish seethed, feeling like he was a kid again, trying to talk Alice out of one of her crazy dream-schemes. "A man just can't come calling on a single woman's home like that, and he especially can't stay there, even if said woman isn't home. Besides, you would be a burden on Mrs. Kingsleigh, Lowell, and Margaret."

"Who?"

Now Hamish was getting annoyed. This man was Alice's friend, but he didn't know her family? "Alice's mother Helen, obviously, as well as her sister, Margaret, and Margaret's husband, Lowell Manchester. They tend to stay with Mrs. Kingsleigh when Alice is away, so that she won't be alone."

"Why would Alice's mother be alone? Isn't her father home?"

Hamish stared in horror at the man, unable to believe he didn't know of Charles Kingsleigh's death over a year ago. When Mr. Hightopp started speaking again, Hamish thought he was going to correct himself and apologize for being so foolish as to forget Mr. Kingsleigh's death, but instead he found himself horribly offended. "Oh, I know! How silly of me – Alice spoke highly to Absolem of her father, and he to me, though it took some time to get anything out of him as Absolem always has to be so wise and such, though I'm not at all sure he isn't just doing it to show off, but I take it Alice's father is the sort to be just as muchy as she is, and thus out on the seas as well?"

Hamish clenched his sweaty palms at his sides, trying both to make sense of what was just said and, in figuring it out (mostly), not to be appalled. "Charles Kingsleigh was indeed much like his daughter, and I'm sure he would have loved to travel the world, but I'm afraid Mr. Kingsleigh is no longer among us."

The hatter frowned agian. "Isn't that what I just said?"

Hamish felt himself sag in the shoulders at the incredulity of it all. "I mean to say-"

"Well, if you meant to say it then why didn't you from the start?" Mr. Hightopp snapped.

_If he isn't the moodiest man I've ever met_...

Hamish fought to keep his composure, raising his head high again and straitening his posture, deciding to be blunt. "Charles Kingsleigh passed from this world over a year ago."

"And to what world did he go?" The hatter asked, sounding as annoyed as Hamish felt.

Having lost all patience, Hamish replied, "The world of the dead, Mr. Hightopp."

It took all of five seconds, watching his eyes slowly drain from a washed out green to a dangerously golden yellow, for the Hatter to have another incident.

This one, Hamish later reflected, was much worse than the first one in the garden.


	2. Chapter 2

When the gardener had come, (most unnaproprietly running) frantic, into the Ascot's dining room about an hour earlier, interrupting Hamish and his mother, who had been engrossed in worrying over the absent Lord Ascot (who was still out and about with Alice on bussiness, having insisted she need a chaperone. "And rightly so," Hamish had to admit) over tea, he had been the first to volunteer a servant be sent out and his mother (and himself) stay where it was safe. For the gardener, once they had been able to get something coherent out of him, had said there was a madman in a tophat out in the garden.

They would have sent for the authorities immediately if it hadn't been for the fact that, while he was being pushed from the room to go calm down, the gardener shouted that the man had, between waving a large stick about and raving, demanded to be taken to Alice.

At that, Hamist had ordered the gardener right back into the room and onto his mother's sofa (she had voiced a bit of displeasure over this, as the servant was filthy, but Hamish had silenced her with a determined look his mother rarely thought her son capable). Once water was fetched for him, he explained that he had come across the strange man while trimming the rose bushes near the maze, and while he had been on guard against the intruder at first, he'd quickly dropped his suspicions when the man had struck up pleasant conversation about the white roses. He'd seemed like a nice, though most definately odd, gentleman who was in all probability lost (for he was behaving out of sorts enough).

But then things had turned sour. The gardener wasn't even sure what had triggered, but the man had suddenly tore a limb from a nearby tree and began to weild it like a sword, snapping at him, full of uncontrolled rage. He'd started screaming in a language the gardener hadn't recognized and, in fear for his life, he'd fled.

But he had, without a doubt, clearly yelled more than once for Alice.

And thus, Hamish had screwed up his courage (for, while Alice had always been odd, he'd never known her to befriend the obviously dangerous). If this odd man was asking for Alice, Hamish _would_ see him first (for no man in London would see Alice without him making sure he wasn't after her growing fortune. His father had been rather proud of his son when he'd set his foot down, in private, upon the point).

It hadn't taken much to find the strange man, who had still been out amongst the rose bushes, though to Hamish's relief he was no longer brandishing a stick. He was as the gardener had described him first – an agreeable temperment, greeting them politely with a bow before asking, with a bright smile on his pale face, "Is it, by any chance, anywhere near tea time or it's equivalent here in Londonland?"

_There is no possible way I am allowing this man into my house for tea,_ Hamish decided on the spot. Agreeable or not, the man looked out of his mind in a way Alice's appearance would never have hinted. And even his way of speaking, though light and easy, was odd and unnerving. He appeared wide eyed, innocent, and completely off his rocker.

"Sir," Hamish cringed at having to address the man as such, and made no attempt to appear civil as he spoke, but instead adopted his usual pompous carry, "May I inquire as to what you are doing in my family's garden?"

The stranger stared at him, his smile twitching slightly. It was rather creepy to Hamish, meeting this man's vibrant green eyes and trying not to show his fear (for he was growing rather afraid, for no reason he could really put his finger on). But it was hard not to be nervous, what with him being so deathly pale, with sunken cheeks, dark bags under his eyes, untamed red hair, bushy eyebrows, gapped teeth, wide eyes, and outrageous clothing, including a tall top hat, a pink shoulder bag with a strap apparently made out of spools of thread strung together with small chains, a black bowtie spotted with yellows, pinks, and white, pin striped trowsers (which lookd relatively normal, despite them being too short around his ankles, revealing mismatched socks), brown lace up dress boots, a brown jacket which seemed rather beaten up with multicolored ribbons dangling from its left side, a dark vest, and a frilly white dress shirt whose sleeves dangled in excess around his hands, which were wrapped in brown cloth and bandages.

...bloody bandages.

_Has this madman hurt himself – or someone else? _Hamish wondered wildly, growing more worried by the second. Could he have been wrong? Could Alice finally have befriended someone truly dangerous? Or was this man even really an aquintance of Alice, or some sort of freakish stalker?

Hamish's eyes narrowed at the man, who only smiled wider. "Do you own Londonland, then? I'm terribly sorry, I wasn't aware that I'd be running right into royalty when I'd only just arrived." His smiled slipped off suddenly. "...you're rather plain for royalty. And no hat. I should very much like to hat you."

The sudden proposition – as well as this man's behavior in general, for Hamish was quite thrown by being mistaken for royalty, and _still _wasn't sure why the man was calling his garden "London_land_" – struck Hamish with a temporary loss for words. He struggled with his senses, his mouth opening and then snapping shut once, twice, before finally saying the only thing that came to mind, "I don't wear hats."

"Don't...wear _hats_?"

Hamish, even in his still shocked stupor, knew immediately he had said the wrong thing.

The man was glowering at him, no longer appearing young, niave, and harmless. Instead, he seemed tall, his shoulders set, and his eyes bright and menacing and feral.

"Ehs a one thin' ya don' say ta a milna, _'ya don' wear 'ats.' _Evra one wears 'ats sumtime, so ta say ya don' makes ya a liar. Anna I don' like ta think tha' tha world whe'e Alice was born is ruled by ah bunch o' liars, so that must mean tha yer just sayin' tha cuz ya don' want _me_ ta hat ya, and _tha's _an _insult _ta me _trade _and ta the _last_ o' tha _Hightopp_ clan AND YA WON' NA BE INSULTIN' ME FAMILY, YA _FRUMIUS SLURVISH SLURKING URPAL-_"

He was coming – no, more like _storming –_ towards Hamish, a fury about him that needed no weapon. His hand was raised before he'd taken three steps, and Hamish had started backing away before two.

Hamish had all but forgotten the servants he'd brought with him, and it wouldn't have mattered anyhow, for they were all mimicking his panicked face, moving back slowly so as not to draw the madman's attention.

At times like these, there were only two options; Hamish had been raised to immediately revert to them in any emergency, and he didn't even have to think about it now. Option number two was in the works: he was backing away, prepared to run.

The other option? Diplomacy – also known as verbal cowardess.

"Sir, I'm terribly sorry. We have a missunderstanding," he broke into the man terrade of incomprehensible insults, his voice loud and quick so as to be heard (and saved), "I never meant to insult your trade, sir, or your family. I didn't realize you were a-" not watching were he was going, Hamish's leg caught on the discarded branch the man had weilded earlier, and as he stumbled back he shouted his next word much more loudly than intended, "-HATTER!"

"-scrum...size...fez..." The man trailed off, stopping abruptly. His eyes bugged out, looking lost, and his whole body relaxed. When he focused on Hamish again, his lip twitched. "I'm fine."

Hamish just stared at him, dumbfounded. And when the stranger frowned again, Hamish took an involuntary step back once more. But the hatter merely said, in a rather heartbroken voice, "You're not Alice."

_Yes_, Hamish thought, _'heartbroken' is the only way to describe this pathetic wreck of a man now, but before..._

_Before, he was nothing but dangerous._

"Where is Alice?" The man asked, looking around like he expected her to pop out and surprise him. And, oddly, he made sure to look not only sideways in both directions and behind himself, but up high in the trees, down on the ground, and then strait up into the sky.

Hamish was struck with the reminder of Alice once telling him she'd wondered what it would be like to fly.

"S-sir?" He was loathe to recall the man's attention, but, insane or not, he was asking about Alice. And, even if he had to do it in fear of his life (and he certainly did fear for his life, frozen almost in place, knees locked and sweating like a pig), he was going to talk to this man about her. How he knew her, when he'd last saw her, what he knew _about _her. He would find out if this man was, in fact, a friend of Alice Kingsleigh.

The hatter brought his gaze back to Hamish, looking rather startled to find him there at all.

Holding his chin high once again and faking every bit of his confident manner, he said, "I do believe you inquired of tea time? It is, in fact, and we were just having it. If you would care to join us, then we may discuss any matters of Alice you might wish to engage in."

And that was how Hamish had led a madman into his house.

He'd sent the servants away for the most part, making sure no one made mention of what had happened outside to his mother. If Lady Ascot were to find out that Hamish had let him in after that _episode_, she would throw a fit. She was prone to those.

But now, it didn't matter. Because she was in the room, witnessing first hand the madness of Tarrant Hightopp, Milliner of the High Court of...wherever it was he had said he was from.

At least this time the madness wasn't verbal, nor was it directed at any person in particular. No, it was merely painful screams of agony and anger accompanying blind rage as the hatter tore up their living room. The tea table had gone first, upending and almost striking Hamish in the face. He'd moved just in time, throwing himself to the floor. Then he was up again, grabbing his stunned mother's hand and pulling her to the hall, where, upon hearing the shattering of glass and another unearthly scream, she'd promptly fainted.

The servants had come running, and the immediately set to work moving Lady Ascot, but after Hamish was sure his mother would be fine he pressed himself to the wall, peering into the living room to watch the chaos. Most of the furniture was upturned, the windows broken, lamps smashed, bookcases toppled – anything that could be in any way distrubed, it had been. The milliner continued to rage about the room, tossing things that had already been tossed, smashing things that were already smashed, paying no heed to anything except that he had to keep moving, keep grabbing, keep throwing, keep screaming.

It went on for over twenty minutes, and no one had dared go inside the room. A few still stood outside the door, watching, but when a broken lamp had come sailing into the hallway they'd cleared off. Hamish had joined his mother in her room, where she'd been laid out on her bed, and the servants brought her a fresh cup of tea and a wet washrag when she'd recovered.

She seemed dazed at first, and accepted the tea with poise, but once she set it down, a loud roar rent the air and she sent it toppling to the floor. "Hamish, is that madman _still in our house_?"

She looked both scandalized and terrified, and Hamish didn't blame her. He still flinched everytime he heard a yell, but they'd grown less frequent in the past minutes. He was hoping the man would calm down enough soon that he could have him escorted off their property and to someplace more fitting for him – like a madhouse.

But Hamish was also aware that he had yet to send for the authorities. Because, insane as it seemed even to himself, he still had questions for the man. He was going to try to talk to him again. But...not now.

A crash rang out, making mother and son flinch.

No, not now.

Now, he wasn't going _near_ that madman.


	3. Chapter 3

Hamish had finally managed to coax his mother into resting herself once the house had gone silent. No more screaming, no more crashing, no more shattering or banging or breaking. A word from a brave servant told him the hatter had indeed stopped his rampage, and was merely standing there in the middle of the living room, looking dazed.

His mother had immediately ordered the authorities be summoned and Mr. Hightopp be taken away, and Hamish had agreed absolutely. He assured his mother it would be done – he'd send out a messenger in their fastest carriage – and it was only after that that she'd laid back down, sated.

During the entire falsehood, Hamish hadn't even batted an eye.

He did go down stairs and send out a messenger in a carriage, though. But the boy wasn't sent to the authorities; he was sent to the Manchestor estate, and from there, the Kingleigh's.

Then, he marched (with three able bodied young servant men behind him) into the living room.

The hatter hadn't moved since the last servant had reported. He was still standing there, limp, staring vacantly at the floor. His lips were moving slowly, but his eyes were glossy and his voice a whisper.

Once agian, Hamish was struck by how harmless and childlike he looked.

And how terrifying it was that looks could be so deceiving.

Hamish licked his lips nervously. "M-Mr. Hightopp?"

The hatter stopped muttering to himself abruptly, his eyes shooting up towards Hamish. The look sent a cold chill through him.

"Aye, ah bein' tha only Hightopp left, at tha'." His accent wasn't as thick as when he was yelling, but it was enough to make Hamish swallow before he spoke again.

"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't know."

"Alice, though, she a no' bein' alone, is she?"

Hamish struggled for a moment with what exactly the hatter was asking before he decided how to reply. "No, Alice still has her mother and sister, and even when she's abroad, my father is always with her."

"People she can nah leave behind." The hatter muttered, growing less menacing and more pitiful by the moment. "Nah like this mad hatta."

"She left you behind?" Hamish asked curiously, hoping this would bring about some explanation as to how the hatter had met Alice.

"Aye, said she 'ad 'questins ta answa,' an 'thins she 'ad ta do.'" The Hatter spoke bitterly, but with no real anger left in him. His voice grew soft and forlorn, a man broken – to Hamish, in more ways than one. "Said she'd be back afore I knew it, but I 'ave known it fer awhile now, an she still hadna come back." His shoulders slumped in what might have been a shrug if Mr. Hightopp's wide eyed face hadn't been so searching. He faced Hamish fully now, a scared child once again. "Ah thought she mightta fergotten me."

"...so you came after her." Hamish finished, his fear of the Hatter all but gone, if only temporarily. He knew the man could fly into a rage again at the drop of a hat (not that he'd drop his hat, certainly, as it was still about his head no matter the fit he'd thrown), but he couldn't bring himself to really be afraid at that moment, even after all that had happened. Instead, what he saw before him was a man desperate – and determined. Whatever country he was from, he'd left it for London, which he was obviously unknown to, in pursuit of her – of Alice.

Hamish had watched from the dock as Alice had boarded the Wonder and ventured out to sea, and then he'd sat at home sipping tea, waiting worridly for her to return.

Never once had he thought to abandon the comfort of his home to chase her.

No, not like this madman.

"You are a man to be admired, Mr. Hightopp." Hamish admitted grudgingly, choked by his own inadequesy and shame. Truthfully, he added, "I don't see how Alice could possibly forget a man like you."

The Hatter only shook his head. "She 'as bafore." His head snapped up again suddenly, and the abruptness of it, after all of the milliner's sluggishness in their conversation, made Hamish jump. Tarrant was in front of the young lord in a seconds time, grasping him lightly by the shoulders, an odd twinkle in his bright eyes. "Tell me: have you any idea why a raven is like a writing desk?"

Startled, Hamish honestly tried to wrack his brain for an answer, not seeming to question, until after the Hatter had released him, why it seemed to be established fact that a raven was like a writing desk and they only needed to identify why, and not question whether a raven and a writing desk truly had anything in common. "I have no idea, sir."

Sighing in defeat, the Hatter slumped back onto the over turned sofa, not seeming to be bother by the fact it was upside down. He glanced around for a moment, taking in the scene that was the destroyed sitting room before turning back to Hamish and asking, "Did you say it was time for tea here?"

After all that had transpired in the past two hours, tea time was long over, but Hamish was not going to mention that now. He turned to one of the men still flanking him and said, "Fetch Mr. Hightopp some tea. We'll be taking it in father's study. The rest of you, see to this mess."

The servants glanced warily between themselves, but set to work none the less, and Hamish motioned for the Hatter to follow him out, which he did. Hamish leading, he took the Hatter up to the study, which was equiped for business meetings and thus had a fine table they could sit at. Hamish only prayed Mr. Hightopp would have no more outbursts – especially not in his father's study.

He seemed to be getting his wish, as his guest sat neatly in his father's high-backed chair (which Hamish would normally have seated himself, as it was the focal point in the room and he was the host, but he wasn't going to make the man move so long as he was behaving himself) and took his tea in relative silence, only commenting breifly on the taste and quality of his drink. He seemed to appreciate that it was served hot, oddly enough (but really, Hamish shouldn't consider anything odd anymore, not with this man about).

But despite how much Hamish treasured this silence, silence itself was not something that Hamish had been raised to accomodate. A host led conversations, pleasant ones, and so far almost every conversation that had transpired in the Ascot household that day had been decidely unpleasant if not completely disasterous. This, to Hamish, was unexceptable, and thus he set about to remedy the situation. And to do it not rashly, but with much care and thought, for the Hatter was a sensitive man and Hamish would have to be delicate no matter how trivial he thought his topics were.

And after a moment, Hamish decided that maybe trivial talk was just that, and he should avoid it all together. Instead, he began by answering a question that he had before ignored in favor of cutting off one of Mr. Hightopp's earlier rants.

"My father and Alice's were bussiness partners," Hamish said with a bit more somber of a tone than he had intended. Glancing over to the Hatter, who was now watching him curiously, he tried to smile a bit and lighten his talk. "When we were children, they would gather for meetings, whether at the Kingsleigh household or here at my home, and Alice and I would be left to our own devices, as much as children are."

"You've known her since she was a wee lad, then?" Mr. Hightopp replied, taking another sip from his cup and seeming much more jovial now.

Hamish felt his lip twitch a bit. "Lass."

"Hm?"

"You said lad, but Alice is a lass, being female."

The Hatter's expression fell, and Hamish wished he'd just let it alone. So, he continued before Mr. Hightopp could reply.

"Alice and I, well, we really never got along extremely well. Put up with eachother, mores the like, but since Alice has joined the company our families, while always they'd been close, are closer than ever. And I suppose the same for Alice and I." Hamish added after a thought. "So you might understand a bit my confusion at not knowing of you, sir. How did you meet Alice, might I ask?"

The Hatter had taken another sip of his tea, and was now staring down into his cup oddly. Hamish tried not to be insulted, but felt a whine of annoyance escape him. Mr. Hightopp seemed to take no notice, but swirled the liquid about. It was suddenly he replied.

"Can't say she ever mentioned you, neither." He looked up, grinning again. "I met Alice when she was a wee child myself, though not for very long was it. Just a short tea party, after which I'm afraid she got herself into a spot of trouble with the bloody big head."

Hamish almost asked what that meant, but seeing the distinctly dark look about the Hatter and that turning in his eye that made the young english lord bite his tongue.

"Course, so did I, the next time she was about. And we were both in trouble the third visit oh hers, being what it was with the war and what not." Suddenly grinning, the Hatter tipped his glass to Hamish, spilling his tea onto the carpet. Hamish stared down at the spot in horror, but Mr. Hightopp smiled wider and shrugged. "Glad that's over."

This time, Hamish almost asked about the war (Alice, visiting a foreign nation while it was at war! How on earth could that have happened with out him knowing it?), but again decided it best not to speak (getting better at that, he was, thank you very much, Mr. Hightopp). If metioning the death of Charles Kingsleigh had evoked such a reaction from the man, then bringing up his country's past war would probably be a very bad idea, indeed.

But Hamish was saved from having to come up with a new topic of conversation as the messenger came into the room, looking rather out of breath. Hamish noted he'd made the trip extremely quickly, and thought to give him a good tip, something he wasn't prone to do with the staff, as being efficient was their job and not something to be commended for, but he was rather glad for the interuption just and thus his disposition was an amiable one.

"Sir, the Manchesters and the widow Kingsleigh will be arriving within the hour, as requested. Mrs. Kingsleigh was already at the Manchesters when I arrived to relay the message." Glancing worridly at the hatter, who was giving the man his utmost attention with his disconcerting, wide gaze, the messanger continued. "They did not recognize the name of your guest, sir, but were not surprised to hear of a friend of Ms. Kingsleigh's that they knew nothing of."

Hamish nodded. This probably was not the first time nor would be the last that unknown friends of Alice's showed up. After all, most her knew aquantances were met over seas, and thus would remain a mystery to her family back home for quite some time, if they were ever introduced at all.

But rather pleased with the development none the less, Hamish dismissed the messenger, turned back to the hatter, and sipped his tea, still contemplating Tarrant Hightopp's excited, gap toothed smile and wondering what exactly Alice had gotten herself into.


	4. Chapter 4

**Couldn't remember if I ever did a disclaimer for the other chapters, so...here it is. I don't own this. Well, I do own _this_, as in this chapter, which I wrote, and all that stuff, but I don't own, you know, like the whole "Alice in Wonderland" concept and stuff. And I really shouldn't have to say that. I mean, this is a fanfiction site, right? It should go without saying that, since we are writing _fan _fiction, which is by definition derived from a concept that was originally not ours, that any stories found herein would be intellectually not ours except in the writing thereof. Ah, I feel so much better now :) If you're still reading this, I commend you. Enjoy the chapter ^_^**

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"Oh, _mercy_." Helen Kingsleigh, clutching her hand to her bossom and clipping her mouth shut lest she gape at the man before her, could utter no other superlative to describe her first impression of Tarrant Hightopp, Miliner of the High Court of...well, of some country or another (just because she'd never heard of it meant little, as she was a woman, and women normally didn't know such things, anyway. His title sounded important, anyhow, who was she to question it?).

Beside her, Margaret seemed to be having a similar reaction, stepping closer to her husband, who wrapped his arm around her shoulder defensively.

Lowell glanced to Hamish, his eyes narrowing in disapproval. Feeling unjustly reprimanded by said look, Hamish puffed himself up a bit and stepped up beside the hatter (despite his own misgivings, but a wounded pride often trumped such petty things as personal safety in courageous men, didn't it? And while Hamish had never considered himself to be categorized within that particular group of men, as he was a noble and of some worth and tended to protect that worth even under threat of insult and/or shame, at this point he was beginning to think he had done many courageous things that morning concerning this rather frightening house guest, and was not going to let Lowell Manchester look down on him (the cad)! ...besides, the hatter had yet to actually hurt anyone, and so long as no one set off another of his fits, Hamish was certain he was not in any danger just standing beside the man, which brings us back to the point). "Mr. Hightopp and I have just been enjoying tea together and discussing Alice, and I was hoping you'd join us."

Hamish was smiling his best host smile, and it seemed to be having absolutely no effect on his company, much to his dismay.

Helen gathered herself first. "...Hamish, where is your mother?"

Hamish's smile slipped slightly before hitching itself back up. "Well, the events of this morning seemed to have tuckered her out, I'm afraid, and she's taking a rest at the moment and won't be able to sit with us."

All three sets of wary eyes narrowed at him in manner that said "Is that so?" as sarcastically as any derogatory tone could have conveyed. Hamish sniffed in annoyance. This was not at _all_ going the way he wished.

Beside him, the Hatter was starting to bounce on his heels, apparently missing the entire atmosphere of the conversation and shaking with excitement. His large eyes darted back and forth between the three guests, all who flinched back under his gaze, but he gave their reactions no notice and continued to joyfully jerk his head around as if trying to look at all three individually at once. Really, the endeavor looked painful.

Deciding that trying to convince his guests was not going well and maybe trying a different track would be more fruitful, Hamish addressed the hatter this time. "Mr. Hightopp, I believe you said you'd met Alice as a child, but this is your first time meeting her family, correct?"

Not seeming to hear, the hatter continued his odd jerking head-bouncing heels motions to such an extent that they were starting to appear rather frightening.

"Mr. Hightopp?" Hamish repeated, not really expecting the odd guest to reply and just going on formality. "I asked a question, sir, if you would care to-"

"You're rather old, don't you think?" Mr. Hightopp interrupted suddenly, his head stopping abruptly to stare, rudely and with a rather cross face, at Mrs. Kingsleigh.

Everyone's eyes widened considerably, and this time Helen Kingsleigh's mouth did gape. "I...I beg your _pardon_?"

Smile brightening, the hatter continued as though he hadn't heard. "But you do look like her, oh yes, right spitting image if not for all the wrinkles." While Mrs. Kinglseigh sputtered unintelligably for a moment, Mr. Hightopp turned his gaze to Margaret, who flinched back instantly. "You're much better, lot less wrinkly." The hatter nodded in approval, and then his smile suddenly dropped right off his face. "But you don't look as much like her. Just enough to be annoying."

Margaret was looking rather hurt by his comment, and Lowell bristled. "Now, see _here_-"

_Oh no, _Hamish moaned to himself, not at all willing to put himself between the crazy hatter and a defensive Lowell (which was something he was still getting used to, it being a rather recent development. He was almost certain Lowell had taken this strange turn in personality around the time of Alice's last visit, which didn't surpirse him at all, seeing as Alice had been rather terse to him for quite some time – since his blundered proposal, actually, now that he thought about it, though it wasn't as if Alice had ever cared for the man before then. Ah, Lowell was getting louder, he should probably be paying attention) and thus rather worried as to how this was going to develop. He really hoped they wouldn't destroy the entry hall. The living room was in bad enough shape without having yet another room to fix.

The hatter was still frowning, not seeming to mind in the slightest that Lowell was giving him a piece of his mind. "I don't know you." Turning to Hamish, Mr. Hightopp nodded towards a still speaking Lowell with a confused frown. "I don't know him."

"Ah, that would be Alice's brother-in-law, Lowell Manchester. Remember? I told you he was coming with his wife, Margaret." Hamish explained, once again forcing a smile and praying this meeting would somehow morph itself into something vaguely resembling proper, as he'd meant it to be.

Lowell had finally pulled his mouth shut, but he was glowering at the hatter, as though waiting for him to say something else to offend his wife. But Mr. Hightopp simply bounced on his heels, looking happy once again. "Oh," he said simply, "lucky man, then, marrying into Alice's family. Good genes, much muchness."

Despite the fact that what he'd just uttered made little sense to Hamish, he was instantly aware that Mrs. Kingsleigh was no longer looking at the hatter with indignation. In fact, Hamish thought that maybe she had taken what the hatter had just said as a compliment (he supposed the good genes part and Lowell being lucky to marry into Alice's family were both technically compliments, despite Mr. Hightopp's odd manners, and Mrs. Kingsleigh was very proud and very, very defensive of her late husband's family name. _Then this is much better_, Hamish thought smugly, seeing this as – finally - a turn in the right direction).

"'Much _muchness_?'" Lowell repeated, looking confused and, as such, angry again. Lowell didn't like being anything but in control, no matter how much he'd changed in the last few months, and being confused about something was definitely not being in control of it. Of course, Hamish was getting the feeling that the hatter wasn't someone that anyone could control, ever. ...except, maybe, Alice.

"Of course!" The hatter replied jovially, grinning his gap-toothed smile at Lowell for the first time. "So much wonderful muchness must run in the family. Alice can't be the only one with it all, though she tends to misplace it sometimes, but she's always wonderful at finding it again at just the right moment, the rascal. Hamish here was just telling me earlier that Alice's father was just as muchy as she was, rest his soul, and I am very sorry I hadn't come earlier to meet him, such a shame. From the sound of it he would have loved Underland, but since he isn't around to visit it I suppose I'll make do with visiting his world instead, as it is also Alice's world, that much is obvious seeing as she left us to come back here. She loves you all very much, you know."

Pausing in his speech (which had very much resembled a normal speech, almost part of a conversation, which none of the usual signs of Mr. Hightopp's deranged fits despite Hamish prickling at his mention of Charles Kingsleigh. And Hamish was almost certain it had been a good, polite speech, with many compliments and brimming with sincerity, and once again Hamish felt that small twinge inside himself that not only his feelings for Alice, but any feeling he had at all, paled in comparison to a feeling felt by this supposed madman. _That's it then_, Hamish realized, _it's not that this man is off his rocker, it's just that any emotion he feels is more intense than what normal people feel, and thus his reactions more exaggerated. His pain greater, his anguish causing more suffering, his loneliness harder to endure, and his love..._

_His love for Alice..._

but Hamish was getting ahead of himself again, thinking this man loved Alice) the hatter turned to Helen and smiled what was almost a gentleman's smile, and if it wasn't for his pale complexion and wild hair and eyes, Hamish would have thought Mr. Hightopp a real Englishman.

It seemed Helen felt the same.

"Thank you, Mr. Hightopp." She replied warmly, smiling a soft smile that Hamish hadn't ever seen Mrs. Kingsleigh use with anyone other than those she considered family (he'd seen her smile at his father like that, on occasion, and even he'd received that smile a few times, much more recently, but it was still a fleeting and rare thing) and he felt a bit of jealousy towards his mad guest for winning over Alice's mother so quickly. And, glancing sideways for confirmation (which he got), for apparently winning over Margaret, too. But Mrs. Kingsleigh was speaking again. "I'm sure my husband would have just loved to make your aquaintance. You seem like the two of you would have gotten on well. I appreciate your kind words, Mr. Hightopp."

"Hatta, please." He replied, sweeping off his hat and giving it a spin before popping it back on. "Everyone calls me Hatta, I'd be delighted if you would, too."

"'Hatta?'" Margaret repeated, drawing everyone's eyes. "That name sounds familiar."

Tarrant Hightopp's eyes twinkled. "The Mad Hatter, in full."

Lowell and Hamish exchanged glances at the odd nickname, but no one else seemed to notice, as Helen was staring at her daughter with interest, and Margaret looked like she was thinking hard about something. Then she suddenly jumped. "Oh! That's right, the Mad Hatter! Alice talked about you as a child, I remember her mentioning you! From her dreams abut Wonderland!"

"Underland, actually." The hatter replied, looking absolutely thrilled that Margaret knew who he was, that Alice had talked about him to someone. "Always did get the name wrong, the silly boy."

"But I thought those were just Alice's fanciful dreams. They were so farfetched." Margaret continued, so shocked to be seeing one of Alice's imaginary companions in the reality of daylight that she completely overlooked Alice being referred to as male. Hamish was beginning to think that all children, in the hatter's eyes, were lads or boys and that he didn't really understand gender differences until they were adults. The illogic of it wouldn't surprise Hamish, not from the hatter.

"Children are prone to exaggerate," Helen commented easily, still gazing at the hatter with her own kind of wonder. "How did you meet Alice, Mr. High- ah, Hatta?"

Grinning ear to ear and with his face shining brightly, the hatter looked ready to explode with joy. But before he could speak, Hamish decided it was finally time to insert some proper manners into this odd meeting. "How don't we all go have a seat in father's study, and then Mr. Hightopp can tell us all about it, hm?"

"That sounds lovely." Helen replied, nodding.

"Why can't we use the living room?" Lowell interjected, looking rather annoyed at the turn of events. He obviously was not liking the hatter, and he was stubbornly going to cling to that feeling no matter what the man's story was or how much his wife was warming up to him.

Hamish felt his gentleman's smile twitch. "The living room is, ah, currently undergoing some slight remodeling. I'm afraid it can't be used right now. But father's study-"

Leading the way quickly up the stairs, Hamish ushered everyone past the living room as quickly as possible. Thankfully, no one tried to take a peek and he didn't have to explain that the odd man from Alice's past had potentially dangerous anger issues, and they were going to be spending some time alone with him in the study. _When Lowell finds out (and he will_, Hamish reflected somberly) _he's going to have my head._


	5. Chapter 5

**Got this out faster than I thought I would, and yet still extremely late. I'm loving all the reviews, though - thanks you guys!** ** I'm so** **excited for this story now. Anyway, I just wanted to sidenote here that in the original Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, the doormouse was male, despite the flashbacks in the Alice in Wonderland movie showing Mally there. So, I went with the book, chocked up Mally being there to a discrepancy in Alice's newly revived memories, and named the male doormouse Mathwen, Mally's father (God rest his soul). Now then, I hope you love the cliffhanger at the end, I'm already working on the next chapter, I don't own a thing (thank you very much), please enjoy~!**

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"She followed McTwisp." The hatter explained simply, once again sipping away happily on a cup of Mr. Ascot's finest import tea. Mr. Hightopp seemed to have a great love of tea, and Hamish fully intended to cater to that love so long as it kept the man happy and not destroying his house (especially not in front of Mrs. Kingsleigh and the Manchesters, because then they'd loose all respect for him and probably be extremely insulted that he'd led them into the same room with a madman and they'd never associate with his family again. Oh, he was already giving himself nightmares), even if it meant using up his father's private stash of expensive brands that Alice had brought for him as a gift. He'd pay for it eventually, but right now it was working and Hamish would worry about his father's outrage later. The hatter was still talking. "Curious child she was, curious indeed. Followed McTwisp and got herself in a right spot of trouble with the bloody big head – her head wasn't so big back then, but still rather large – just as I had. But I met Alice before the trial, she just showed up during tea time, and me and Thackery and Mathwen, we were right fine with that and let her join us (though I must admit Mathwen slept through most of it, the lazy dear. Tried to tell a story but Alice wouldn't let him get a word in, silly. Mally takes right after him, she does). Didn't stay long, though, she didn't. But still."

There didn't seem to be any more words forthcoming from the hatter after those last two short words, but there didn't really have to be, as Hamish was sure anyone in the room could interpret what the gleam in the hatter's eyes meant. She hadn't stayed long, but she'd stayed long enough, and Tarrant Hightopp would never forget that little girl.

Hamish saw Lowell out the corner of his eye, a disgusted face with no attempt to disguise it painting his features. Hamish knew why, of course, he was thinking it as well. Had the hatter loved Alice even then? She had been a child, no more than a babe still growing, and it was repulsive to think of a full grown man looking at a little girl in such a way, but there were marriages with age gaps like that even in London, though they didn't marry quite _that _young. But Hamish looked at the hatter and didn't feel disgusted by the shine in his eyes at the mention of his first meeting with Alice. From the sound of it, Hatta himself hadn't found his meeting with Alice that odd at all, but it was the memory of it, the later realization of it's importance, that had stayed with him.

Besides, Hamish had thought it before and he was thinking it again now: the Mad Hatter wasn't all there in the head all the time. Sometimes he was as fragile as a child himself, and sometimes he was more dangerous than any grown man. But what he was was truly a combination of both, and Hamish saw no perverse lusts in his eyes at the thought of Alice, only an almost holy reverence and adoration that spanned past, present, and future. Tarrant Hightopp would have loved a child Alice like a daughter if that was all she would ever be to him, and he now loves the adult Alice as a man loves a woman. No matter what age, no matter what kind of love it was, he would always love Alice in some way, some shape, form, or fashion, and that love would never be corrupt.

In Hamish's eyes, it was as pure as love came, and despite all his envy and the pain it caused him inside, Hamish couldn't hate the hatter for it.

Hamish's own love had been like a yoke on Alice's shoulders, holding her down and confining her, so overly protective and oppressive that Alice had probably never noticed that, beneath all the pomposity and conformity, it had actually been love. It had been the way Hamish had been taught to love, the only way he'd know how, and it hadn't been the kind of love that would resound with Alice's heart. Instead, it had confused her, chained her, tried to choke out all of the odd things that society viewed as abnormal but that made Alice beautiful and unique and totally and completely _Alice_. And it had been wrong.

Suppressing a sigh, Hamish turned away from Lowell's uncomprehending disgust and made a note to himself to talk to him later. Lowell loved his wife in his own way as well, just as every man had his own way of loving. It hadn't always been the best love, still wasn't perfect, but it was there, small and slowly growing thanks Alice's prodding and Margaret's undying devotion. He'd understand eventually, but Hamish wasn't looking forward to trying to explain. He still didn't think he understood it all, not really. But there was just something in him that said this was _right_, and that he needed to be prepared for the fact that, however odd or insane he may be, this man's being belonged to Alice, and it was going to be up to Alice in just what way she would lay that claim to him.

Hamish really hoped she wouldn't turn him away. He didn't think Tarrant Hightopp would survive it. And then he thought about what he'd just thought, and was shocked at himself. _Hoping for the success of a rival in love? Hoping for Alice to accept this potentially dangerous madman? Have _I _lost my mind?_

Turning his eyes to the window in hopes that the blue sky would help clear his mind, Hamish instead found himself confirming his insanity. Because there couldn't possibly be a cat floating outside a second story window. A gray cat with almost florescent blue stripes. And a grin. A huge, toothy grin.

As if reading his (questionably vacated) mind, the cat met Hamish's wide stare with its own big, green eyes, and vanished into a wisp of smoke.

"Hamish, are you alright?"

Blinking, as though this was going to help restore his senses, Hamish brought his attention back to the table, refusing to acknowledge for a second that what he'd just seen could in any possible imagining be real. It was the stress. Yes, all the stress of the day was finally catching up to him. He needed a rest like his mother.

"I'm sorry, I seem to have distracted myself. You were saying?" It was only after he'd gotten the sentence out that Hamish realized he was, in fact, talking to the Hatter. Tarrant was the one who'd asked if he was alright. The man who was half mad himself, asking if _Hamish_ was alright! The incredulity of it!

But the hatter was not privy to Hamish's thoughts (thank goodness, they were quite confusing enough without someone else to comment on them, especially someone as _colorful_ as Tarrant Hightopp) and only continued to watch him worriedly (worrying about Hamish, really? The man should have his own cell in an asylum, and he was looking at _Hamish_ with such an expression? This day was just getting worse and worse...). "Are you quite sure, Hamish? You look a bit pale."

Hamish was well aware that he _always _looked pale (like a proper English gentleman, prone to teatime indoors and very little prolonged contact with sunlight. Besides, he had a naturally light complexion, being a ginger, and had sensitive skin. And again, how did this eccentric man have any place in making such comments when his skin was almost bleach white, and thus twice as pale as Hamish himself, not to mention blotted with dark circles under his eyes and the patches of blood on his hands – Hamish had almost forgotten about the blood, had the man hurt himself again when tearing up his living room? For it was looking rather fresh – but Hamish was getting off his line of thought and that wouldn't do. Where had he been? Ah, yes - did the hatter not gaze in the mirror everyday and see how ill he looked, for if he associated Hamish's paleness with not feeling well, he must certainly realize that he himself looked far worse for the wear! Ah, Hamish was hurting his own head again, trying to apply logic to Hatta's reasoning) and wondered how his guest seemed to gauge that he'd gotten paler, though he certainly didn't doubt he was, as his little bout with insanity was quite disconcerting.

...And when had he started addressing Hamish by his first name? If Tarrant had known Alice as a child and been older than her then, he was certainly older than Hamish and thus it was within the rules of etiquette for him to call him such, except that Hamish was a Lord. Did the Hatter's distinguished title outrank him? He could think of no other reason the milliner would address him so casually, unless he wasn't aware of proper ettiquette at all (he hadn't known what a week was, after all, so why should Hamish expect him to know what everyone else in London knew? He probably shouldn't make any assumptions about this man's knowledge for it seemed to be horribly lacking). Could a hatter really outrank a Lord, if he was employed by foreign royalty? How was the monarchy and Lordship organized where Hatta came from?

But in all Hamish's pondering, he seemed to have answered automatically, and, reassured, the Hatter had now continued his conversation with Helen and Margaret. Really, talking while he was thinking without thinking about what he was saying was not a good habit to be kindling, he needed to stop that.

"It's all so hard to believe." Helen was saying, looking winded by the knowledge she was accumulating about her daughter's escapades as a mere child, and right under her family's nose, apparently. "Alice followed this McTwisp – a stranger! - to your home country? And he didn't notice?"

"Oh no, McTwisp was running very late for a date with the Red Queen, so he wasn't paying little Alice any mind at all. And it's not very far from here to Underland, there are many ways to get there, though people from here rarely ever notice, the silly dears." Hatta replied with a bit of a mischievious smile, running his finger along the edge of his tea cup absentmindedly. "It might seem odd to you, and it was certainly odd to Alice, and I can see why. Londonland-er, _London_." He gave Hamish a nod and a smile, proud of himself for remembering the correct name for the city. Hamish, while waiting for their guests to arrive, had explained to Tarrant that he was not, in fact, the king of London, or England itself, and while a lord he was not royalty, his backyard was not it's own little kingdom, and London was merely a city, not it's own country or "Londonland," as he called it. "London is so very different from Underland, even though I've seen so very little of London so far, Hamish has already had to explain lots of things to me."

"I wasn't aware of any neighboring countries quite _that_ close, that a child could just follow someone – and right across a border, too!" Lowell was still glowering at the Hatter suspiciously across the table, and had apparently taken it upon himself to call attention to anything remotely odd about Hatta's story (which, Hamish mused, was almost everything, so Lowell would have his work cut out for him, but really, Hamish didn't want to sit around all day and listen to Lowell bark about every little detail he thought he could discredit. Though this line of thought did seem to be a logical one, and one Hamish also wanted an answer to, so he left Lowell to his question without a fuss).

Mr. Hightopp frowned (something he seemed to do often around Lowell, and that didn't bode well). "Why, there's one right out in the backyard."

"One what?" Margaret asked, confused.

"A rabbit hole."

"What does a rabbit hole have to do with our current conversation?" Lowell demanded, looking annoyed.

"Everything, obviously." Tarrant replied, his expression turning sour. "Why don't you make any sense?"

"Why don't _I_...?"

Sensing this conversation wasn't going anywhere good, Hamish decided it was (once again – he was also sensing a pattern to this) time to intervene, but before he could, Margaret spoke up again, wide eyed. "That was how Alice used to say she got to her '_Wonderland_' – she said she fell down a rabbit hole."

Helen looked at her eldest daughter oddly, as did her husband, and then she also commented. "Didn't Alice mention something about falling down a hole when you proposed, Hamish?"

Hamish stiffened, not at all liking to think back on the moment where all his dreams were crushed into the dirt under the heel of the women he had thought to spend his life with, but he nodded, remembering every painful word very clearly from that day.

_"I fell down a hole and hit my head,"_ Alice had replied to her mother's worried inquisition. Her next sentence had been the one that cut at Hamish's very heart, and-

"...proposed?"

Hamish found his gaze drawn to the hatter quite suddenly, snapped from his own pain by the sight of the torment that was flashing – literally, green swimming in a storm of gold – in the eyes of the madman. He looked frozen on the spot, staring unblinkingly at Hamish, only his eyes showing the chaos churning within. "You...and Alice...?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: Again with the me not owning what I don't own and all that such.**

**I am still having major computer problems, in case anyone actually reads the updates on my profile and knows what's going on (and hey, if you don't, or if you didn't even know I did that, then hey, guess what? I post little updates on my profile near the bottom - you should check it out when you get annoyed that I'm not updated lol) cares, but there's hope on the horizon, so wish me luck. Anyway, things are coming together in my head for this story, I'm happy to say, and there will probably be Alice coming up in, like, two chapters (I think, if all goes according to plan - which it rarely does, by the way). **

**Oh, and I changed the Main Character listing to Hamish instead of Alice and Hatter. Good idea? I'll probably get less hits this way, but it seems more right.  
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Hamish supposed that if anything he'd said that morning would push the Hatter over the edge, it would be this (and since he'd already caused quite a few fits from Hatta, he fully expected this one to be much, much worse, and the prior ones had been bad enough – and this one was going to be in front of Mrs. Kingsleigh, Margaret, and Lowell, something he had hoped very much to avoid).

Hamish and Hatter sat there, both seemingly frozen to the spot, eyes locked in wide shock – Hamish's in anticipation, Hatter's in pain. He should say something to head this off, Hamish knew, to stop this panic and clear up the misunderstanding – but that meant saying, out loud, that Alice had shot him down, and it was always so painful to form those words (it hurt bad enough just to think them) and he couldn't bring himself to open his mouth. Instead, he waited, rooted to his chair, for Hatta to explode again.

So it made him jump when it was an unexpected voice he heard next: Helen's, full of apology and sympathy. "Oh, I'm sorry, Hamish. That was rude of me. I am sorry for the way Alice acted back then, but that girl just does as she pleases, as did her father. You would have made a wonderful addition to the family, it's a shame Alice wasn't ready for marriage."

Ah, yes, Helen Kingsleigh's little explanation for Alice's looking him strait in the eye and telling him that he _wasn't the man for her_: Alice just wasn't ready for marriage. She wanted to follow in her father's footsteps, work like women just _didn't_ work, travel the world and not be tied down with anymore family than she already had. When she'd gotten all that out of her system, when she'd spread her father's dream from coast to coast, she'd settle down, and hopefully her pretty face wouldn't have faded before then.

Hamish thought that Mrs. Kingsleigh probably believed that as much as he did, which he didn't at all and that said something. Maybe it was true that Alice wasn't ready for marriage, that maybe she'd think more about it once she had made her father's company the most successful business on the high seas, but that wasn't why she'd turned down Hamish. She'd said it right, as much as it pained him: He really _wasn't_ the right man for her, and that's all there was too it. True, he was much closer to being a man worthy of her now that he'd matured a bit, but he still wasn't anywhere near what Alice needed or even wanted, and he highly doubted he would ever be, because he would always be proper Hamish Ascot, and she would ever be flighty Alice Kingsleigh, and they would never mesh together the way he had dreamed, no matter how much he wanted them to.

Still stiff, Hamish again only nodded at Mrs. Kingsleigh, not wanting to appear rude but still having a hard time swallowing down the lump in his throat at speaking about Alice's rejection of him. And, of course, he had yet to take his eyes off of Tarrant Hightopp. He was worried Helen's words hadn't made themselves past the sea of grief that was consuming the Hatter to make a difference, but slowly he saw the gold fade slightly out of Hatta's eyes, green once again becoming the predominant color, though still much murkier than it had been earlier.

Hamish let out a nasal sigh, realizing he was once again hallucinating, for people's eye colors just did not change depending on their emotions (in fact, they didn't change at all, not normally). _Is madness contagious?_ Hamish wondered bitterly. His thought was left without an answer as Margaret seemed to realize where Hamish's true attention lay, and was suddenly herself as full of concern as her mother. "Hatta, sir, are you alright?"

The Hatter's lips moved softly, but no words were forthcoming for several seconds until the madman's lip twitched and Hamish caught a whispered "fez" before the smile hitched into place and his guest once again replied with, "I'm fine."

Everyone at the table, including Hamish himself, was staring at the Hatter as though they were hesitant to believe him (and after everything Hamish had seen that day, he knew they had good reason not to) but ever oblivious to the concern for his sanity that his responses tended to evoke, Hatta merely asked, "Now where was I?" before resuming his ramblings, none of which Hamish had a clear enough head to even attempt to follow.

There was a knock on the door that saved Hamish the humiliation of being drawn into a conversation he hadn't been listening to, and one of the servants stepped in, holding a pad of paper while shifting ever so slightly and casting minute glances at the Hatter that made Hamish painfully aware of what his topic was going to be before he even opened his mouth. "Young Lord, sir, we've...ah...that is to say, the...er...the _repairs_ in the living room are going to require some...ah...you'll be needing to order some..._supplies _and such, sir."

"Yes, of course." Hamish replied quickly, his fake smile almost cracking his face with how lightening fast it claimed it's ground over his formerly slumped features. He rose from his seat quickly and was signing the proffered pages before the servant had even released his grip on them. "Want this done, we do, see to it it's all completed as soon as possible – try to upgrade it a bit, but stick to mother's preferences, shall we? Speaking of mother, I'd like to have this all done and forgotten when she wakes up, surprise her with the new things, so be quick about it, understood?"

"Yes, sir, right away, sir."

"There's a good man." Hamish handed the papers back and practically shoved the servant out of the room. He was praying, praying hard, that no one would ask questions about the servant, the papers, the living room, or the "repairs" when he tuned around.

Hamish stopped dead in his tracks.

The was a mouse on the top of Hatta's top hat.

A white mouse standing upright on two legs and sporting a tiny pink dress.

_I suppose mice in dresses are more plausible than floating cats, _Hamish thought haltingly as his brain tried to process the scene. The mouse merely narrowed it's rather large, glossy eyes at him before turning around (rather proudly, he thought, with its little back strait and tall) and shuffling off the edge of the back of the hat, disappearing from view.

_Cats and mice_, Hamish blinked rapidly, _maybe there's some sort of strange symbolism in all these hallucinations._

Before anyone could ask if he was all right (which was quickly becoming the most popular phrase of the quickly approaching evening, Hamish thought he'd pull some of his meticulously combed hair out if he heard it again) he gave a nod (more to reassure himself than anyone else) and said, "Right then, very sorry about the interruption. Shall we continue?" despite still having no idea what the Hatter had been talking about before the servant had knocked. Still, is was polite to ask him to continue where he'd left off and Hamish was always careful to be courteous to his guests, no matter how off his rocker they may be driving him.

"Actually," Helen smiled warmly, her gaze once again turning to Hatta, who's face lit up like a child's at the motherly look. "I was just going to ask if Hatta would care to come by my home. It's not a very big place, an both my girls spent a great deal of time here as children, but i thought maybe you'd want to see Alice's home. I've got some old drawings of hers tucked away I think might interest you, sir."

Admittedly, Hamish hadn't made the connection before now, but as soon as Mrs. Kingsleigh had mentioned Alice's drawings, he'd known exactly what she was talking about – and he wasn't happy about it, not at all. But Margaret was beginning to look excited, and Lowell was eying her suspiciously (for if Margaret was excited, there was the chance of her being let down from such a good mood, and that didn't bode well for her husband, so he wanted to make sure that whatever this excitement was about, it ended well, for a disappointed Margaret made for a very testy Lowell, and Hamish hated dealing with Lowell after he'd spent a few hours cheering his wife up and then came to the young Lord to vent his own exhausted frustration at the effort of the whole endeavor, as though it was all an inconvenience and he was extremely relieved to have his chipper bride back to normal again, for Hamish knew he was just pretending to be tired and really just wanted to talk about his wife, which rather grated on Hamish, for he had no wife at all, despite having pursued the sister of the one who was inevitably to topic of conversation when Lowell was involved, as Hamish had soon realized when Lowell had suddenly decided to drop all his old friends and make Hamish his knew buddy, for whatever reason – Hamish was willing to bet it had something to do with the evil glares and whispered conversations in private between Lowell and his sister-in-law, the poor bloke).

"That sounds splendid!" The Hatter replied jovially, clasping his hands with enthusiasm. And with that, the group of them shuffled back down the stairs, having already sent a servant ahead to ready the carriage. Having guided the group past the living room without drawing attention to it, Hamish relaxed a bit – but only a bit.

* * *

Hamish was acting suspicious. Lowell would have crossed his arms over his chest to reflect his eyebrows, which were pulled down in disapproval, but Margaret had her hands threaded through his elbow, so he suppressed the urge. He didn't know what was going on, and he didn't like that he didn't know, and he didn't like this strange man who was suddenly gaining the approval of his wife and mother-in-law, and he also didn't like the way Hamish was behaving.

After the servant had came in to talk to Hamish about _buying supplies_ and such, Lowell had decided he very much wanted to see the living room and its repairs for himself, and he would have, too (easily, for Hamish wasn't exactly subtle in his distractions, nor sharp in coming up with split-second excuses), if not for the looking-glass in the hallway.

Well, it wasn't exactly _because_ of the looking-glass, for looking-glasses were rather commonplace and ordinary, and it was barely something he even registered that one was hanging on the wall as he started past it. No, it wasn't the glass itself that made him stop in his tracks and gape. It was the reflection in it – or, more precisely, the lack thereof.

He did not see his own face in the looking-glass. Instead, the surface appeared misty and a bit wet, as though – impossibly – it were starting to belt right there in the frame. But through that fog, he saw something far stranger.

Beautiful, yes, but strange still, for a fair women with a pale complexion and turrets of wavy white hair stared sternly back at him through the mysterious glass. It struck him instantly that she had a shine to her eyes, kindness and laughter that shown through despite the set of her face, strength and determination wrapped around a gentle soul.

Eyes like his Margaret's.

And then said Margaret gave his arm a tug, looking up at him from his elbow. "Lowell, why'd you stop, dear?"

He glanced once more at the looking-glass, but there was no ghostly face, no eerie fog, and no melting reflection – only his own incredulous expression gazing back at him. He turned his attention back to his wife, muttering "Sorry, no reason" with a smile as they began walking again. As she accepted his dismissal easily and smiled right back, Lowell could still see the same things in her eyes as he had the ghostly white woman's.

And it scared him.

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**This is yet another author's note. Why? Because I wanted to comment on this little switch in perspective, but didn't want to put it at the beginning and give you spoilers (spoilers! HAH! I can't hear that word and not think of you, River Song~! Man, I'm watching waaaaay too much Doctor Who - and you all should be, too, love that show lol). But anyway, I did say (in my little profile update - see, there it is again, being important and such. Man, aren't I a brat?) that this story was centering around the guys, and here's the first taste of Lowell's perspective. I'm still going to be keeping Hamish as the main perspective, but the other guys will have a shot here and there. I normally only write from girl's points of view, so this is a really new and rather fun experience for me, and I hope you guys like it too! I love everybody, thanks again for all the awesome support and reviews!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: You may praise me for this story, but you cannot pay me, for while it tis mine intellectually, it is not mine legally. ...actually, I don't think it's mine intellectually, either. *sigh***

**Folks, this chapter was completely unintentional and totally the fault of my wonderful reviewers~! I read the reviews after the first few days this chapter was up, and was sooooo way happy that I sat down to write (with every intention of there being Alice somewhere in it) and then Lowell** **ran completely away with the story. Seriously, he wasn't supposed to have so much screen time, but I think I accomplished almost everything I wanted to with his past character development in just this chapter (now for the future mwahaha)! I was so excited, and so proud of him heh heh. Anyway, next chapter already started and there SHOULD be Alice either in it or the next one.**

**Also, I would just like to say that this chapter came out so quick because I had a lot of free time and was extremely happy, so sadly I don't want you to get you hopes up. Sorry, but don't expect me to continue to be this fast (I honestly had this chapter done within like three hours. I would have posted it last Thursday, but I went fishing with the in-laws - no internet). Still, I am trying to be faster :) Oh, and sorry to flood you with alerts when I kept correcting typos and reposting the last chapter. And on the advice of reviewers, this story is back under Alice and Hatter. Alright, I'll shut up now. enjoy!**

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The carriage ride into the heart of London wasn't nearly as bad as Hamish had first feared, what with being in such close quarters (really, Hamish had never before realized just how much a carriage resembled a large box, and each and every jostle had him on edge, waiting for the sudden movement to cause Hatta to jump, a thought he knew wasn't fair to the man, but really, a slight bit of paranoia concerning the ginger was very much called for, even expected, so no one could fault Hamish for it) with so many people (Hamish had been sure to place Hatta by the window, and put himself at his side, and then direct to women so that Helen was across from Hatta, Margaret in the middle, and Lowell at her side, so that Lowell was a far as possible in the carriage from the Hatter so as to minimize any possible conflict) of such diverse colors. He was pleasantly surprised to find that Margaret absolutely loved to hear Hatta's tales of his homeland, and Alice's childhood adventures there (for there were times when Margaret could even recount the story as well as Hatta could, as Hatta only knew his own encounters and those he'd been told of by others who'd been there - including the Queen of this Underland! - but Margaret knew the whole series of wild tales from Alice's tellings. Even Helen knew a bit here and there, from Alice's dreams.

Hatta was extremely interested in the nightmares that had plagued Alice almost all her life. Memories, he said, not bad dreams. He didn't comment too much on them, however, and when he did, he was hardly understandable, but Hamish saw a great change come over Mrs. Kingsleigh the more they conversed.

Helen stayed silent through most of the conversation, except for the dream tellings, of course, and only watched her eldest daughter and the strange man with interest. With every word the Hatter verified the truth of the events that had haunted Alice's whole life, and Helen was having a great weight lifted off her shoulders with what was happening.

Alice Kingsleigh was not, and had never been, mad.

She'd had a rather trying experience lost in a foreign country as a child, and no one had known or been able to help her through the shock of it. They'd thought her a dreamer, childish even in her teens, fanciful and not at all proper. They'd all been wrong.

Alice was Alice, and she was strong.

And Helen was proud. Almost to the point of relieved tears, she was proud of her youngest child.

Margaret, too, was thrilled for the truth in her sister's life, but she was also enthralled with this completely new world that Alice's and Hatta's tales were spinning in her mind. Most didn't know it, but Margaret, too, had been a dreamer. She'd never let the dreams run away with her like they all thought Alice had, oh no, she'd been a right proper young lady, down to the "T", but she'd always, always, wished she could have lost herself in an adventure like Alice had.

There was no hard envy in Margaret, no, just a sweet longing to have had what her sister did. There wasn't a mean bone in Margaret's body, in Hamish's opinion (an opinion greatly influenced by Alice, Helen, and Lowell, but still partly his own observance), but here in the carriage, on a simple ride to the Kingsleigh house, he saw a new side to the sister of the women he'd loved. The shine in her eyes, the laugh and the clap and the little jumps of excitement with the story. Margaret Manchester had found a way to free herself from the confines of propriety, just a little bit, in Tarrant Hightopp, friend of The Alice.

Hamish turned his eyes away from the motherly pride shining in Helen's eyes, skimmed past the childish joy practically radiating from the Milliner and Margaret, and let his gaze rest appraisingly on Margaret's husband.

Lowell had his back slumping against the carriage door, his body turned so that the Hatter stayed in the corner of his vision, always in sight, and yet his eyes could fix on the only thing he found important. His arms were crossed over his chest in general rebellion, one leg resting on his other knee, and his face was assembled in an expression that Hamish could only describe in one word: Torn.

There was a hardness to lines around his mouth, a stubborn dislike he was holding onto and still not ready to let go, and this was obviously directed towards the Hatter. Tarrant was wild, unpredictable, and completely out of Lowell's control - and thus his comfort zone. He was new, unknown, and in his own way, scary (Hamish was glad that Lowell didn't have any experience to support that belief, because then there would probably be no hope at all of Lowell giving the crazy man a chance. It was this sudden thought that made Hamish aware he _wanted _to give Hatta a chance, despite barely knowing the man, and knowing what he did making him warier still. How strange...). And then there was the fact that he had already, in the span of (Hamish thought for a moment) about two hours, won over Margaret and Helen with what seemed complete ease. Helen had always been proper and seemingly caring towards Lowell, but she'd never been this open with him (nor, again, with Hamish), not the way she was with Hatta. And then with Margaret...

Well, Lowell just didn't like it at _all_ that Margaret seemed to find a kindred spirit in this strange man, had revealed a whole new side to herself that he'd never seen in her before to a man who, as well as strange, was a stranger to boot!

Shifting his shoulders uncomfortably, Lowell tried to shift away the thought that was trying to identify this new feeling he was dealing with.

Jealousy.

Margaret was _his _wife. He had nothing to be jealous of, he reasoned with himself. Of course, the ties of matrimony hadn't stopped his infidelity, of which he was sure the discovery of would shatter Margaret's precious heart into a million little, tiny bits. It was a thought that had bothered him before, when he had been seeing other women, so he had taken precautions, been careful, shielded her and protected her from his...questionable behavior as best he could. Margaret was wonderful, she really was, but she had made it too easy for him to seek more conquests elsewhere, to use other women for more fun, more thrill, to feel more of a man than just a simple husband with a simple wife and a simple life. She had been kind, cheerful, and...a bit plain. She was everything he had expected his wife would be: attentive, understanding, beautiful - and clueless. That had been the way he'd wanted it. That had been his dream life.

And then Alice had come along and, literally, walked in on what had been an exciting, dangerous moment of thrill and weakness. Get handsy with an attractive old girlfriend who still looked at him with that playful, sexy gleam in her eyes, at the engagement party of his wife's strange younger sister, with only a tall garden hedge between them and the rest of those prickly old aristocrats? It had lit the fire in him. Seeing it had also lit a different kind of fire in Alice.

She'd been confused then, easily influenced, he'd thought, to protect his secret if it protected Margaret's happy little daydream of a perfect life. When she came back after she'd run off from the proposal, however, she'd had no confusion in her whatsoever. Yes, Lowell had his secret safe for now, but Alice was his wife's protective sister, and she had kept her word about watching him _very_ closely. She'd caught him again after that. And again. And again. And each time, she'd added to the small fire of fear that had begun to burn inside him.

Because no matter how many other women there had been or would be, Lowell had always come home to his Margaret. Her happy smile at seeing him step through the door, her totally sincere "how was your day?" while she did whatever he wanted, fetched whatever he asked, and the way her eyes shined when they would lie down together at night. There wasn't as much thrill with Margaret as with other women, because looking at her always made him be tender, no matter what other desires he brought to the bedroom, what else he was used to, expected, or even wanted. With Margaret, he just had to be tender.

The difference, he realized now, was that he was making love, not having sex. This was the woman he loved, truly, whom he had chosen to always be there for him for the rest of his life, to share everything with and to be there for him when he needed more than just flesh and an ego stroke.

And he was putting that in jeopardy with all these other girls. With every infidelity discovered, he was pushing Alice to believe her sister's happiness lay not with him and his lies, but with a broken heart and a chance to heal with someone new.

It was that thought that nearly broke Lowell Manchester. Margaret Manchester was _his_, and he would not give her up, not to any man, and not even to a simple life without him in it. Women were playthings, Margaret was his _wife_, and in no way was one equal to the other. Playthings were not worth losing half of his very soul over - not when that half was Margaret.

Looking back, it seemed like such an easy decision to come to. It hadn't been. Lowell had fought with himself, fought with his desires, and fought with those he'd shared a bed to get to this point, this final knowledge of love and dedication. He'd slipped up (more than once) and he'd struggled with ups and downs of "what Margaret doesn't know won't hurt her" and "I am the head of my family, I'll do as I please" to "what kind of man am I to betray my promise of monogamy?" and "I'd rather die than lose my Margaret."

His Margaret. Even when he hadn't known how deep he'd cared, he'd tried to protect her from his betrayals. His lies had been a pathetic shield, but they'd been the first clue that he had, truly, wanted to protect her smile and her innocence and her happiness. The high opinion she had of him, the pedestal she put him on, had him slowly wanting to become the image she had of him.

Lowell Manchester was far from a perfect man, but he was a man changed from his erring ways. And it was that change that finally gave Alice the confidence in him not to hurt her sister that she left them and sailed away to China. They were not, and probably would never be, friends, but two of the three most important people in his wife's life had come to an understanding of one another, and Lowell had emerged a better man because of it. He even respected his sister-in-law now, just a bit.

Which had been one of the reasons why Hamish Ascot had been his first choice as a new "friend" when Lowell had dropped his old buddies (all of whom had shared similar activities as he had, and were thus both angry with him and an all around bad influence, as loose women were easy to come by in their company). Because Hamish had gone through a similar change in himself. No, Hamish had never been a lying, cheating scoundrel (as Lowell was now willing to admit, though only to himself, that he had been) but he had his own faults that had, in the end, drove away the woman he loved, something Lowell was fighting not to do himself, and Hamish had emerged from the tragedy of it a better man himself (a less selfish, pompous, cookie-cut aristocratic pansy, at least. There was still room for improvement, in Lowell's opinion, and he intended to help Hamish grow a bit more of a backbone eventually). Thus, he was someone he could identify with, whether Hamish realized it or not.

Hamish would do anything to protect Alice, Lowell knew. And Hamish was giving all the signs that this strange man had gained a bit of approval in the time they'd known each other (and it had been a suspiciously short time, and Hamish was being rather jumpy despite his apparent confidence in this Tarrant Hightopp, Mr. Important-Somebody-of-Somewhere) so Lowell was still wary. It was obvious to him, as it was probably obvious to everybody else in the carriage, that despite being a bit older than usual to come calling on such a young woman, this man was, in fact, coming to call on Alice, so to speak. And having had his sister-in-law grow on him as of late, Lowell wasn't at all sure he approved.

He pried his eyes away from Margaret's childish delight (of which he did thoroughly approve, though he begrudged the new man having caused it instead of himself) to meet Hamish's eyes (for he'd known Hamish had been watching him for some time, like he was waiting for Lowell to dive, hands outstretched, for the Hatter's neck. ...a tempting thought, but an impossible one). Hamish looked tired, in Lowell's opinion, but determined. Wary, yes, and just a bit scared, as well.

Just like Lowell, Hamish wasn't going to let Tarrant Hightopp near his precious Alice until he was certain, absolutely _certain_, of the man's motives and sanity. No dangerous madman was going near Margaret's sister, of that both men were decided.


	8. Chapter 8

**Yay, an update! I think I'm getting better at this :D Anyway, I finally got my computer running nicely and OpenOffice seems to be doing well for me, so I'm writing again! While this chapter took a weird turn I hadn't planned, it accomplished what I _finally _wanted to have happen (which I won't tell you now - you have to read it!). I had been planning this little cliffhanger since chapter one, finally glad to have it out of my system. The next chapter is already started, and I hope everyone enjoys the guest appearances ;)**

**I would also like to say, once again, that YOU GUYS ARE AWESOME AND I LOVE ALL THE GREAT REVIEWS, THANK YOU ALL SO VERY MUCH YOU MAKE MY DAY!**

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"Look here, Hatta, I think this is a picture of you." Separating one small, yellowed sheet of paper from the stack, Helen passed the drawing over the old green trunk to where the Hatter could reach it. Glancing at it as it passed hands, Hamish saw that it was very simple, done in what had probably been her father's quill ink and bare fingers. The smudged black square on top of a circle was indeed a child's depiction of a top hat on a head as far as Hamish could tell, and the old paper was passed into the Hatter's hands, who held it with delicacy and stared at it in awe.

Among the stack were other simple childhood pictures, none much better than this one (for Alice, despite being amazing at almost anything she put her mind to, had never really put her mind to being an artist), each showing little caricatures that Helen, Margaret, and Tarrant smiled at fondly. Among which, Hamish was rather disturbed to find, was a purple cat with a big smile and a crude gray mouse (thankfully not in a pink dress, though).

Lowell was currently staring oddly at a picture of a woman with white hair in a white dress with a crown, while Margaret was laughing about a rabbit in a waistcoat with a pocket watch. Helen was watching Hatta's face, however, as he gently turned Alice's depiction of him around in his hands, as if to admire every angle. He appeared as though his very breathe had been taken away by the stick figure in the top hat.

In a different box, there had been pictures that weren't of Alice's "Wonderland" - Hamish held in his own hand a squiggly drawing of two stick figures, one tall and holding the smaller one's hand, who was wearing a blue dress and had a wild mane of yellow hair, and then a bit to the side of them was a rounder figure with a tuft of ginger on its head.

The sisters were smiling in the picture. His younger, rounded self was not. Had he ever? Around little Alice? Probably more often than he did now, but not enough to have Alice immortalize him on paper with one in place. No, Hamish had always, and probably would ever, be the frowning stick in the mud to Alice.

He let the paper fall back into the box he'd picked it from, and stepped back a bit from the group gathered (rather unceremoniously) on the attic floor. It was dusty, and Hamish felt a sneeze coming on.

Lowell was also standing, though in his usual, closely protective stance at Margaret's side as she sat with her mother and the Hatter, pouring over old boxes of this and that and, most importantly, the two girls' old drawings.

They'd been at this for about an hour, for it had taken a bit to find the right boxes in the musty storage room. Hamish and Lowell had both been insistent about going through the boxes themselves and having the others stand back, talking of cobwebs and spiders, but really, the two men had been worried about finding pictures of Charles and how it might upset the Kingsleigh women, bringing about old stories and fresh tears, neither of which could either man handle. Now that the correct boxes had been found, Hamish was keeping his distance, aware that, while he was a family friend, this was not his past, his memories, or, truly, his family. Even Lowell, now empty handed, was moving closer to Hamish and away from the happy group in the floor, feeling like intruders into something personal and distant from the present where they were. Contrarily, Hatta was the center of the reminiscence, with Helen and Margaret sharing each picture and each tale with him as they burst forth from the boxes and their memories, as though they had suddenly found a lost piece of their past that fit right in where husbands and childhood friends just didn't.

Watching them made Hamish feel sad, an emotion he tried to stifle by raising his chin in defiance and forcing himself to keep his eyes on the happy event that he was not apart of. He, Hamish Ascot, had brought these people together, had given them this joy. He should be feeling an undeserved sense of pride and accomplishment, just like he always did when circumstance dealt him a beneficial hand.

His hands tightened behind his back as his eyes flitted to the hatter. He gave up the fight.

As cordially as he could, Hamish sounded his retreat. "I'm going downstairs, maybe pop my head out for some fresh air for a moment. Bit stuffy in here, hope you don't mind."

Helen looked up and gave him a sweet smile, one that showed just how appreciative she was of Hamish's hand it what was happening before her. It only made him feel worse. "Of course, Hamish. Make yourself at home."

Leaving Lowell to stand guard with only a flicker of his lingering concern over Hatta's fits, Hamish made his way down stairs with his head still held high and his spirits sinking more than ever. He was tempted to have a spot of brandy to lift them up again, but thought better of it (for Hamish knew himself well enough to know that one glass wouldn't help much, and any more than that would probably knock him off his feet, for Hamish could not hold his drink).

He was almost to the sitting room when he began to hear whispered voices. Tempted to chock it up to his continual bouts of delirium for the day, he never the less slowed down and made himself walk quieter, approaching the room with alert ears. Soon enough, a conversation could be made out.

A male voice, smooth and silky, was talking cooly. "I have no idea what you are getting so ruffled about, Mally, everything seems to be going fine considering it's Tarrant we're talking about. I think he's fitting in splendidly."

A female voice replied, sounding more put off than the man had. "Fittin' in? With these _slurvish-_"

The next few words were quite unintelligible to Hamish, but he got the idea they weren't compliments.

"Why, Mally!" The man replied, sounding scandalized, and absolutely thrilled about it. "Language, my dear lady. I was only saying that you are quite over reacting. There is no need to bring Tarrant home yet, he's doing just fine - and he hasn't even found Alice yet. I doubt you could drag him back before he's seen her again."

"I know that! I jus' don' see why he's so set on this! She made 'er choice, she did, and she choose this place, not us and not 'Atta. Wha' does 'e think 'e can say ta make 'er change 'er mind? 'E's in danger up 'ere, and fer wha'? A woman 'ho turned 'er back on 'im!"

Now Hamish was sure he didn't know the whole story, but he was certain Alice would never turn her back on anyone, and the way this woman was talking about her was beginning to prickle his nerves. Daring a step closer, he peered around the door frame to get a good look at this insulting old-

It was the mouse again. The white one in the pink dress.

Oh, Hamish wished he hadn't looked at all now, because certainly that mouse was not standing on the end table, waving around a sewing needle and chatting with that smoky cat that he was also imagining, perched on the back of the couch like any normal pussy that didn't smile a mile wide and reply with a sultry gentleman's voice.

"Now Mally, you're being too harsh. Alice was there for us all when we needed her, came through even when everything made so very little sense by her definition of the word. You're partial towards Tarrant, and you don't know Alice like we do."

"Jus' because you all knew 'er when she was jus' a lass, you think you'll know 'er foreva." But the mouse was merely grumbling now, knowing she'd lost her argument.

"On the contrary, many of us couldn't even tell if she was even the right Alice, if you'll recall. But she proved herself, Mallymkun." There was a pause where the cat seemed to await a reply, and when he got none, smiled a bit bigger. "You're still mad she took your Bandersnatch eye."

"Am not!" The mouse snapped back. "I'm mad she got the 'atter arrested in the first place! She wasn't actin' very much Alice back then!"

"Which is exactly my point, Mally dear. She _wasn't_ very much Alice then, but she's all Alice now-"

"An' she left us! Shot the 'Atta right down when 'e asked 'er to stay! 'E shouldn't be 'ere, were 'e don' belong, beggin' 'er back, she should be back in Underland, beggin' 'im!" The mouse, having been becoming more animated as her anger grew, swished her needle about and gave it a hard throw – planting it pointedly in the wood of the door frame beside Hamish's head.

All three sets of eyes stared at the needle for a moment before two of those sets turned to Hamish, who met their surprised looks with a rather stiff one of his own.

The mouse's expression went from shocked to baleful in an instant. "Wha' are you lookin' at?"

"Oh, dear." The cat seemed more exasperated than anything.

Having never had vermin cop an attitude with him, Hamish continued to stare (slightly bug eyed, he admitted) at the mouse in the pink dress who had seconds before come inches from impaling his eyeball with a sewing needle.

There was a knock at the door, but it wasn't until the third knock that Hamish finally pried himself away from what were obviously his delusions and forced himself to open the front door. It was a cabby, holding two rather large blue suitcases. Behind him, pulled onto this side of the street, was his cab, and, stepping out of it, was Alice.

Soaking wet, stumbling slightly, and being helped along in the arms of an abnormally large man with an eye patch.

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**:D This ending makes me so happy. The scene that inspired this entire story, _finally_ arrives! Because I'm sure everyone can guess the new arrival (I'm pretty sure I already mentioned he'd be popping up anyway, stupid me, spoiling my own surprises...) and I'm happy to add him to the cast~! The actual adventure should begin to appear soon (lol)! And did I mention that Mally's accent is SO much fun to write? She and Chess are the awesome little voices in my head!**


	9. Chapter 9

**FINALLY! ...that's what you're all thinking, right? I know it is, because it's what I'm thinking too. Just to let you know, I'm not entirely satisfied with this chapter. I wanted to do more with it, but no matter how I rewrote it, this is how it turned out. So, hopefully the next chapter will accomplish what I set out to do and this one won't be too much of a disappointment. If anyone is reading my profile (as they should, because that's where I defend myself- I mean update the status of the next chapters) then you already know college is sucking away my free time despite finally granting me internet access. It's a sad world we live in. Oh well. Updates will be random, pester me and I'll probably be more motivated (you know who you are). Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I own the words that have pieced together what resembles a story here on this page, but alas, the characters were kidnapped from the mind of another, and must eventually be returned. And no, I'm not even getting a ransom for them. **

**PS - I do ever enjoy writing _the brogue_. Mwahahahahahaha~  
**

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The sewing needle was still sticking out of the door frame as Hamish helped Alice and her escort into the sitting room. He made a note to pick it out later and hide it, but for now it only served to confirm his fear, one even greater than thinking he was seeing things: there had actually been a ghostly cat and a mouse in a dress carrying on a conversation on the couch only minutes earlier. Oh no, Hamish Ascot was not delusional, he was just wrong about everything he had ever been taught about the way the world was supposed to be. The fabric of his universe was unraveling, and he didn't even have time to examine it, for there was something far more important going on here than his world falling apart: Alice was home, and home weeks ahead of schedule, dripping wet from head to two and apparently in the care of a giant of a man.

Needless to say, Hamish hadn't fetched the others from the attic just yet. Seeing Alice in this state was liable to send them all in a tithy, and the Hatter over an edge or two in his already fragile mind. No, it was best to know what happened before hand so he could prepare.

Or, at least that's how he justified it to himself later. Really, he just couldn't think of anything else but Alice at that moment.

Of course, Alice was just Alice the whole time, which was a comfort to Hamish as he shuffled about in a semi-contained panic, wanting immediately to know what had happened. She paid him barely any mind as she had her servants bring her bags in and fetch her a towel.

"I'm going to my room to clean up, I'll be down in a minute. Stayne, stay here and _behave _yourself." Ignoring Hamish completely, Alice gave her tall companion a stern look, to which he smiled and bowed, which was all proper in itself, but Hamish was sure he detected some sort of mockery in it, but Alice ignored that as well and left them.

After all these weeks of waiting and waiting for her to return, this was definitely not what Hamish had been expecting for Alice's homecoming, and this was all he could think as he sat in the sitting room, trying not to stare at the strange giant who sat in the great armchair by the fire place.

Hamish thought he should be polite and strike up a conversation of the manly sort, as was all right and proper (as things _ought_, eventually, get back to being. He was worried he was getting used to being out of sorts, and that just didn't sit well with the young Lord) and expected of him as the only educated male of familiarity with the place and thus he felt he was a sort of stand-in host for the ladies of the home. So, he began: "Stayne, was it, then? It's a pleasure, sir. I am Hamish Ascot-"

The man, apparent friend of Alice's (Hamish did wish 'friends' of Alice's would stop just showing up, and he seriously hoped this man didn't express the same interest in Alice as her other, equally strange friend had), barged right into Hamish's introduction with a lazy drawl. "_Ilosovic_ Stayne."

His face twitching only slightly in annoyance (it was barely conscious, only a reflex, really, for Hamish was quite used to interruptions by now, what with having the Hatter around all day) he nodded and continued, unbothered by the strangeness of the man's name anymore than he was by Tarrant Hightopp's. "Ah, Ilosovic Stayne, then. I am Hamish Ascot-"

"I gathered that the the first time you said it." Stayne broke in again, looking annoyed.

Unsure as how to respond to that, for Hamish was sure he should be insulted but was having a problem searching the emotion out and feared greatly that he was becoming so accustomed to a lack of propriety that it wasn't actually bothering him anymore which was a very bad sign, Hamish only stood and straitened his vest and assumed a properly jilted face just for the sake of doing it. Ilosovic Stayne reclined further into his cushioned chair and propped one leg up over the other, as comfortable as could be. His eyes wandered from Hamish for a moment, locking on something over his shoulder.

"Is it a custom in this backwards world to stick needles out of door frames?"

Hamish felt his eyes bulge almost out of his head, and made for the pin with a bit less composure than he should have allowed himself. He pulled it out of the wood and stared at it, suddenly very aware that there _had been a cat and mouse talking in here_ not but a few minutes ago. Where _had_ they gotten to? Were they just _flitting_ about the Kingsleigh estate, free and intelligent and possibly _shedding_? With rabies?

His panic was cut short as Alice came sweeping into the room in a dry, prim and blue (ever Alice's color) dress as plain as her mother would allow in something that wasn't meant for business. Her hair, still wet, hadn't been made up properly but merely halfheartedly pulled back so that it was out of her face but still falling in waves around her shoulders. She was also barefoot and stockingless, which Hamish was sure he and the other man noticed at exactly the same time.

Even when as far from social standards as possible, Alice looked stunning. And to Hamish's relief, the stranger seemed miffed by her appearance, not impressed.

"My dear Alice," Stayne began in a bored voice as Hamish quickly tried to stash the sewing needle in his small pocket. "You'd look absolutely delectable if only you weren't so terribly small."

Far, far from appropriate (and not entirely sensical, but was anyone lately, Hamish wondered with a small sigh), the comment had Hamish jerking his head around to once again bulge his eyes in shock at this tall man. He thought his bottom lip was probably engulfing his top, his face was so set with disapproval.

Alice, being Alice, didn't seem to care that his comment was entirely inappropriate and reacted with her usual unusual poise. "I can't say I'm disappointed at my loss of your approval. I see you've made yourself at home in my father's chair."

That brought about a smile (not a pleasant expression at all, really, for it made the endings of the scar poking out from under his eye-patch stand out in startling relief, marring what were already less than desirable features on a pallid face framed in rather oily, shoulder length black hair), and he laced his fingers together in his lap. "It's not really up to my standards, but it seems to be the best you have to offer me, so I won't complain too much."

"Is that so?"

Hamish had been about to jump from his chair to Alice's defense, despite his being sure Alice could very well defend herself, but they'd both been beat to it by someone neither had expected. Whirling around, Alice found her mother standing behind her, looking elegant and stern, like a fierce goddess or a mighty queen, and she stepped out of the way of mother's line of sight so that sparks almost flew as the stranger and Helen's eyes met. Margaret was behind her, an insulted princess, both hurt and indignant, ready to take her mother's mantle should she need to. But the Kingsleigh matron needed no assistance.

"Well, I'm sorry the accommodations don't suite you, sir. But they suite myself just fine, and seeing as I am the one who lives here with such items, I don't see why your opinion should make any difference to me. If you don't deem it worthy of you, leave, and have a good day sir. I don't believe we will be worse off without you."

If ever Helen Kingsleigh had given anyone alive so cold a stare, Hamish had never seen nor heard of it, and certainly he would have, for gossip would have eaten this up alive, for with her grayed hair and noble indignation, she was truly to face of an elderly queen, cloaked in white.

And then her knights came from either side of her and her eldest daughter, rounding into the room with faces dead set.

"I think she just told you to leave, stranger." Lowell's voice was firm, leaving no room for argument.

But it was nothing compared to the Hatter's.

Back was the Scottish brogue and the fierce light in Tarrant Hightopp's eyes, and he seemed more wild than Hamish had ever seen him in that moment. "Ain' no one, _eva_, allowed ta talk ta Alice like tha', ya hear me, vermin?"

_Ah, so they'd been there long enough to hear even Stayne's comment about Alice being "delectable" then. _Hamish felt himself back a bit closer to the wall, trying to be small and insignificant. He felt no shame in it, for any sane man would have cowered under the glares that had gathered into the Kingsleigh sitting room. But none of Alice's friends seemed sane to Hamish, and this new man was no exception.

Stayne's smile spreed even further, and he slowly rose from his chair, like a cobra preparing to strike. "Tarrant. How nice to see you."

Both men reached for their sides at the same moment, as if for a sword, only to realize neither was equipped with the thought of weapons. They stared at each other fiercely for another moment, as if they were sizing each other up, debating on whether to just duke it out by hand when-

"Alice!" As though he'd been snapped awake from a trance, Tarrant's head shot up and his expression brightened with a sudden light and hope Hamish only ever thought he saw in the religious sort. He whirled around just as Margaret, who'd been the one to shout, came forward and threw her arms around her younger sister. "Oh, Alice, I didn't even see you there! You're home!"

"Yes, Margaret, I'm home." Alice half choked out, smiling into her sister's embrace. Her eyes were still flitting between the Hatter and the giant, and as she pulled away from Margaret, she stepped in just a way to place herself defensively before Stayne.

Helen's face softened a bit, taking in her daughter's apparent good health with a mother's relief. "Welcome home, dear."

Beside her, Lowell nodded. Alice nodded right back.

"You're hair's all wet." Margaret knit-picked in her sisterly fashion, dabbing at the tresses. Alice looked like she was about to reply, but the answer came without her.

"She was thrown from her ship."

All eyes turned to Stayne, who stepped up behind Alice, towering over her small form. "I had to jump in and swim to her rescue, fished her right out of the jaws of the ocean." He motioned dramatically with both hands, making a show of his explanation, grinning still wider all the while. "You can all thank me _properly _now."


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: If I owned Alice in Wonderland, I wouldn't be writing. I'd be _living_.**

**...I have no excuse for myself. Except, well, all the usual ones. Like life, college, homework, work, lack of general free time, lack of inspiration, family emergencies, etc. Anyway, I tried to make this chapter a bit longer (just a little...) to make up for it, but it's still not much. I'm practically dancing around two plot points here, I hope everyone knows that. And again, sorry for the wait.**

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Alice huffed, crossing her arms. "You make it sound so dramatic."

Stayne rolled his eyes. "You were _drowning_. Not dramatic enough for you?"

He could still see it in his mind, though his sneer hid his thoughts well. She had turned back to her family, and was saying something, but all he could focus on was the back of her head. Her damp, golden curls, slender, porcelain neck – and the image of those locks disappearing under the surface of the ocean, arms flailing in desperation and the echoing screams of the young woman.

Overlapping with that memory was something that honestly got to him – if only just a little bit. It bothered him, and _that_ bothered him even more (because really, something like this just _shouldn't _bother him because frankly nothing like this had ever bothered him before). Because when Alice had been out in that water, fighting for her life against the ocean waves (and in a skirt, no less), he hadn't seen the woman before him now. Not the champion, the woman who'd stood on the battle field against him, who'd spurned his advances, but just that small head of gold, standing before his trial, the only one to defend him those many years ago...

Stayne had killed before, many, many times with absolutely no qualms about it – would again, in fact, if he felt like it. He'd had every intention of turning beautiful, fully grown Alice over to the Red Queen for what would inevitably lead to an execution of the beheading sort (really, the bloody woman had no creativity or finesse whatsoever, but she typically got the job done, so he had tried not to complain and get the axe turned upon himself). That hadn't bothered him either. Maybe it would have, eventually, when he'd gotten more time to think about it and the implications had sunk in, but then again, he hadn't had any time to think at all before jumping in that ocean to save her, had he? Really, the whole debacle made so little sense to him that he didn't even want to think about it, for it was giving him a headache.

He slumped back into the armchair, still not caring that his clothes (mostly cotton and leather) were still drenched and had begun soaking the upholstery when he'd sat the first time. He barely fit in the tiny thing (he hated furniture. Always too small!) and his discomfort only added to his annoyance. He kneeded his temples, sighing audibly so as the bring the room's attention back to himself, completely disregarding the fact that he was interrupting an apparent conversation already in progress. "Dear Alice, when shall I be getting some dry clothing? This house must indeed suffering from a sad lack of service to let a guest – the hero who rescued the youngest child from a terrible death, no less! - go on wearing such so drenched an outfit. Why, I could be catching a cold right now."

He let his eye reach up slowly to meet those of the lady of the house, satisfied to see his barb had hit home and she was staring him down coolly. Lady of the home, indeed. It was easy to see where her fair daughter had inherited her poise. Insulted, Alice's mother carried more dignity within her than the Queen of Hearts had ever shown in all her petty, spoiled years, on or off the throne. Pride, oh she'd had heaping mounds of pride, but true dignity? The real bearing of a queen? It had always been the White who walked with such a thing.

And that was exactly the reason why Iracebeth had been so convenient a tool (though she'd worn on him more often than not, the wretch).

Stayne took a moment to notice the eldest daughter had the poise, too, but was obviously the more sheltered of the family. Barely breaking through the face of an insult suffered was the indignation that possessed her mother. He didn't waste much of his attention on her, though, and was looking to Alice within seconds, his appraisal of the women going almost unnoticed.

Almost.

Alice took Stayne's rudeness in stride, something he was beginning to think she would only grow better at, sadly. She wasn't even ruffled by his comments. She saw past the barbs in his words and found only what needed her immediate attention. "Right, sorry Stayne. We obviously don't have anything that will fit you, of course, but I'll get a courier sent out to fetch a tailor. We'll have some measurements drawn up and get you some proper fitting attire made. Until then, I'm afraid you'll either have to suffer through the damp clothing or wear something too small for you. We've still got some of my dad's things packed away upstairs. I can find you something, if you'd like, but that's the best we can do at the moment."

Stayne was pleased to see that this suggestion visibly bothered Alice's elder sister, and it was the arm of her husband wrapping itself around her should that brought her polite, hostess face back to the surface. Their mother, however, seemed to be in complete agreement with Alice, despite her immediate dislike of her guest. "I actually already have one of Charles' boxes open, we were going through some of your old drawings he'd kept before you arrived. I'll go pull some of his more sizable articles out."

"I'll send for the tailor." Her sister smiled, turning to follow after her mother. Her husband hesitated only a moment before following.

The three paused momentarily in the doorway, all turning the look at Alice collectively. The blond sighed, but joined them in their exit. Obviously, there was to be whispered conversation about her rescuer in private, an idea that had Stayne rather amused.

The Hatter and the pale ginger against the wall, however, stayed put, both eying Stayne with great dislike. The Hatter's was much more pronounced, and Stayne actually found himself smiling at him. "Something wrong, Tarrant? Your face is the epitome of distaste."

"Ahs i' well shud be, wi' tha likes 'o you en tha room." He replied, still bristled and ready, despite the lack of weapons at their disposal. But then again, men didn't really need forged weapons, did they? Being readily equipped with fists and feet and what not, they were more than prepared for a brawl of a more primitive sort, which suited the pair just fine. And in any case, there was plenty of furniture, should more violence be necessarily. And it usually was when Stayne was involved.

"You know, Tarrant," Stayne grinned, a wonderfully terrible thought occurring to him. "I couldn't help but notice the lack of reaction on Alice's part upon seeing you. In fact, she seemed much more concerned with protecting _me_ from _you_. What a strange turn of events."

If Stayne had thought Tarrant was bristly before, it was nothing compared to his condition after Stayne's words. He became stiff as a board, and lost was the anger that had been seething from his being, replaced instead by a general gloom that clouded the fierce light that had been in his eyes.

_Oh, struck a very sensitive nerve, did I?_ _Now this is laughable._

"I suppose you just didn't make as much of an impression upon your champion as I had thought. Myself, however...well, I _did_ save her life, after all. I'm sure she feels indebted to me, maybe even a bit taken with my gallantry-"

The Hatter cut into the knave's sentence with what was a hardly intelligible growl. "Ya've got qui'e tha fantasay goin' on' en' tha' head 'o yours, don' ya?"

"It seems closer to fact that _you_ are the one living in the fantasy, my dear Hatter. Just what did you come here for?" Stayne was on a roll here, and he knew it. If ever there was a chance to hurt his adversary with mere words, now was it, and he proceeded with flourish. "The fair Alice Kingsleigh has paid you no mind at all, making it very obvious that she hasn't given you much thought since she left, let alone _missed_ you. Did you really think she would? Did you think you could come her, whisk her away, and she'd be ready to take up her mantle again as your Champion, glorious and at your side, to aid the White Queen in her time of need? Now that, _that_, precious hatter, is _pathetic_."

He spat the last word, laughing, smiling (and it was a cruel smile, the cruelest he could muster, and his laugh realer than any he could remember uttering, for the hatter was shrinking under his words, being crushed, absolutely crushed, and Stayne _loved _it). Tarrant looked about to reply, to defend himself in some pitiful way, but Stayne wouldn't let him even begin. The giant of a man stepped up, forward, towering over the pale milliner, lowering his head to him to whisper in his ear. "My my, Mr. Hightopp. Your world is just falling to pieces right in front of you, isn't it? Has been, for years and years, and more and more just keeps slipping through your fingers and falling away into the darkness, disappearing. Your life, your mind, it's all going. Did you think that, just because Alice had road in on the Bandersnatch to save the day, Underland would right itself again? That Tarrant Hightopp would bring his family name back to its former glory, that the White Queen would rule with perfection instantly, and that peace would suddenly coat Underland in beauty and light? No world works like that, Tarrant. Especially not Underland. Nothing can be the way it was, not ever again. And coming here changes nothing. Nothing at all."

Stayne stepped away, slowly, quietly, watching and waiting and knowing. He could almost here the timer in his head, the second ticking away, counting down...

Until it all boiled over, and Tarrant Hightopp erupted.

Hamish had priorities. They were simple ones, yes, but they were the ones that were important, that took meant more than anything else (and there was a great deal of things that meant something to Hamish in this world, for he would willingly admit he'd been rather blessed in his life). He'd always felt his own life had a nice, comfy spot at the top of that list (and for good reason, for he was a Lord, a beloved son, and he was worth something) and his parents came right after. Alice and her family had also made their way right up that list, more so since he'd been rejected, something that had quite surprised him. When one was turned away so flatly, one should drop all interest in the one who obviously couldn't see what was good for them. His pride, his very family name, was at stake in such matters.

And yet.

Somehow, the Kingsleigh family just kept moving up inside, invading his thoughts, mattering more and more even though he should have been pushing them out. And Alice...Well, somehow, Alice had went from prospective bride to practically his sister in a matter of hours, and that position had apparently cemented itself despite the confusion it had caused (and was still causing) him. Somehow or another, in some way or other, Alice would always be a focal point of Hamish's life, would always be someone of the utmost importance to him.

And that's why, despite his growing comradery with one Tarrant Hightopp, Hamish was now rushing to the Kingsleigh's kitchen instead of back in the sitting area, where the screams and crashes and all around cacophony of pandemonium was coming from.

Lowell was already poking his head out of the kitchen when Hamish rounded on him, shoving him back into the room and shutting the door behind him with a good solid slam. And then he turned and smiled at the confused gathering.

Helen immediately stepped forward. "Hamish, what on earth is going on in there?"

"It's Stayne, isn't it?" Alice asked, looking rather angry (and still beautiful, heaven curse her, he was never going to get over this if was going to keep on looking so radiant no matter what face she wore). "I knew I shouldn't have left him alone, he was bound to cause a ruckus. Here, let me-"

She made a move towards the door, which Hamish was effectively blocking with his frame (which really didn't put up that much of a barrier, except that none of the women would actually try to remove him just out of propriety – something that wouldn't stop Lowell if he didn't convince Margaret and company to stay put, and quickly). "No!"

Alice stopped short, looking confused at his outburst. Hamish hitched his smile back in place, nodded, and continued, voice now level and within normal decibels. "No. I don't think that would be wise. It is not Mr. Stayne making the noise, I'm afraid, though I do put full blame upon him for causing it. It's Mr. Hightopp...he's...well, a bit prone to fits, you see, and I'm afraid your other guest knows just what buttons to push to set him off."

"Hamish Ascot," Helen began, lowering her chin in what was undeniably a disapproving glare. "Just what is going on in my sitting room?"

Hamish felt the bridge of his nose pinch in frustration as his smile fell away, and he sighed. "Oh, probably the same thing that happened to my mother's. I'll be certain my father reimburses you for the damages. I am terribly sorry, I should never have brought him here after this morning-"

"You brought an unstable, potentially dangerous man to my mother-in-law's house!" Lowell roared, finally getting a handle one what exactly Hamish was rambling on about. He'd known Hamish was hiding something about that man, and Hamish had known Lowell had known, and now it was all but proven and definitely not going to turn out in his favor. Why oh why had he ever decided he wanted to help that crazy hat maker?

"Well," Hamish began, having not yet pieced together his own pathetic defense, but was cut off by yet another loud crash, and the echoes of a most unearthly howl, like an animal, wounded, dying, broken.

Disturbing, yes, indeed the cry could only be that of a man who wasn't wholly a man, and Hamish felt torn by it. Was it truly the fault of the man when he was so uncontrollably mad?

Suddenly Hamish was thrown forward, the kitchen doors behind him having been pushed open, catching him in the shoulder blades and propelling him from his sentry post. He caught himself on the edge of a counter, thankfully missing the Kingsleigh women and instead knocking the wind out of himself. Trying to catch his breath, he turned, and found that Stayne had apparently come to join them, grin still in place.

"Now, why is everyone hauled up here in the kitchen?" He asked playfully, leaving the doors open behind him for all to hear the full brunt of the Mad Hatter's raging pain. He was obviously taking joy in the horror etched on their faces. "Is it dinner time already? Can't say I'm averse to a warm meal."

"What did you do to that poor man?" Alice demanded, rounding on her towering rescuer with all the fire Hamish had come to expect from these beauties.

"Me? I didn't do anything." Stayne replied, popping an apple up from the fruit basket and taking a bite.

"Liar." Hamish replied haughtily, finding his air again enough to resume a role he was used too, and much more comfortable with: being a pompous snitch. He turned to Alice immediately, trying to ignore the fact (as best he could, but it was rather difficult, what with Stayne having to stoop not to touch the ceiling, he was so large) that the dark haired man was almost twice his size and extremely intimidating. "He was egging Mr. Hightopp on, with insults and such, and then whispered something to him. That's when he became so upset. That man," he nodded to Stayne, who glowered back. "He did it on purpose."

"Stayne!"

Taking another bite out of his apple, the addressed merely shrugged. "So maybe I did provoke him a bit. It's not my fault he's off his rocker and is now tearing apart your _lovely_ sitting room. You really shouldn't have let in trash like a Hightopp into your home, in any case. Wish the Jabberwock would have killed him when it burned the rest of them."

_SLA-P!_

Margaret gasped audibly, and the rest of the room stood staring, immobilized, at the two before them. Stayne still leaned against the counter, his left hand clenched on the wood surface, glaring down from an awkward angle at the fierce and indignant Alice.

She'd slapped him.

In his right hand, Stayne's apple caved between his fingers, crushed.

"That's enough, Ilosovic." She said calmly, firmly, meeting his one eyed glare with her own sizzling undercurrent that, despite the extreme size difference, made them look on even footing. His eye narrowed, but he made no move in retaliation. After a moment, Alice turned and strode out of the room.

Stayne was her responsibility, and that made this her fault. She intended to make it right.

Barely dodging a flying teacup, Alice stepped into the sitting room.


	11. Chapter 11

**I'm sure most all of you have already come to terms with how slow I am at updating, but for those of you who haven't...I'm still very, very sorry. I still have no internet, but it has been paid for and is on its way (however that works...). That doesn't really mean faster updates, as I was already slow before I moved and I had internet then, but anyway! You're here for the chapter, what am I rambling about? I have been waiting for FOREVER to get to this point, so happy it's finally happened :) I love my boys in this story so much, Hamish is great and Lowell and Stayne are too fun! And ah, poor Tarrant~ Anyway, I hope this chapter satisfies!**

**Disclaimer: I own Alice in Wonderland. Just a copy of it though, sadly, so no money is being or ever will be made from this story. Le sigh.  
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If Alice was going, of course Hamish would follow. It wasn't always a given that he would be brave enough or even willing, but for this, Hamish thought it seemed matter of fact (even though it really wasn't). He had spent some time with this madman, after all, and felt he was responsible (just a bit though, because really, how could he control someone with such fits? Completely out of his control, that was, Hamish certainly couldn't be blamed. But still-) for the man and he definitely felt responsible for Alice (because he'd never done a thing for her before, the lout, and somehow felt like he should be making up for it now that it was past too late – a common ailment among men, Lowell informed him once) and was not going to stand in the kitchen and just not know what was happening between the man tossing the Kingsleigh furniture around and his vivacious Alice.

So he was on her heels after a few moments of hesitation (he was allowed those. He was Hamish, after all, and bouts of courage were not his forte). His resolve faltered momentarily when Alice deftly, like it was completely natural and even elegant to do so, dodged a teacup that came flying out of the sitting room and mashed into the wall about three inches in front of his face. It rather reminded him of the needle he had tucked in his breast pocket, where he had stashed it after he'd pulled it from the door frame – which was after it had been _thrown_ at him (and with some malice, he thought). Would things continue to fly at his person in this way? He did not like this possibility.

But Alice was now in the midst of the storm, and Hamish had to push aside the thoughts (for he was going to need all his wits about him if he wished himself and Alice to emerge from this unscathed – and he did, truly) and bring himself to venture after her once again.

The Kingsleigh sitting room did very much so resemble the Ascot's, as Hamish had expected it would. Overturned furniture, broken glass, ruined paintings – he could go on, but he was too busy dodging flying memorabilia, something Alice didn't seem to have any difficulty with, oddly enough.

That was a bit encouraging to Hamish. The Hatter had made it seem like he and Alice were very much acquainted, good friends, even, but so far Alice had indicated nothing of the sort. She'd barely acknowledged the man's presence, as Stayne had said, and that had worried Hamish greatly, despite the proof upstairs in those childish drawings that Alice did know him – or at least, had known him once upon a time. Had he really let in a madman who had made a romance out of a childhood meeting? He prayed not, and took solace in how Alice seemed used to Tarrant's fits, not bothered at all by the state of the room or his terrible, terrible cries.

"Oh joy." Hamish turned at the new voice joining them, and the action almost got him hit by a rogue table leg. But he'd seen enough after his recovery to know that Stayne was probably more of a problem joining them than a help (really, the man even looked bored. Why had he bothered to follow at all? For the show?). "Alice, really. Just leave the poor wretch be."

Alice paid Stayne no mind, instead continuing her slow circle around the eye of the Hatter's storm (which was diminishing somewhat, as he was running out of furniture to throw and seemed to be contenting himself with merely flailing about wildly). She was being careful, looking watchful, and when Tarrant whirled away from her with a roar, Alice lept after him, grabbing his shoulder and twisting him around until she was able to slap her hands down onto both his shoulders.

"Hatter!" She cried, her voice firm and her face resolute.

And Mr. Hightopp's head shot up, eyes locking instantly with the fair Alice's. And he didn't move. Not a bit.

The storm was over, his tantrum stopped. Simple as that, there was only a broken, sad man standing there in rainbow colors, tattered and torn, all trace of his madness swept away, leaving him destitute and alone (despite the small group crowded around him, and Alice still holding him – she may have been the only thing holding him up, he looked so faint. And really, the way they continued to stare at each other was highly inappropriate and made Hamish shift uncomfortably).

"Terribly crowded, Alice." The Hatter whispered.

"Then leave." She answered simply.

And, as though they had just had a perfectly sensible conversation that had all the makings of something delightful, Tarrant smiled down at Alice, who in turned giggled softly and took a step back. Mr. Hightopp stood on his own, apparently once again in good spirits.

_Really? Just like that? _Hamish thought, baffled, befuddled, and all kinds of other confused. But Alice was smiling and Hatter was smiling and Stayne looked ready to vomit on the imported rug, so Hamish heaved a sigh of relief, puffed out his chest pompously as though it was he himself who had just averted a disaster (and judging by the condition of the Kingsley living area, no disaster had been averted, but on the contrary, had ran its course right through, devastating the mahogany furniture and decimating the porcelain tea set, with no help or hindrance from young Lord Ascot in the least), and counted himself lucky that the chaos had abated (if only for a short time, for Tarrant's fits were, to Hamish's great affliction, apparently a regular event in the milliner's life and thus now, sadly, in Hamish's own).

Apparently satisfied with the Hatter's now jovial disposition, Alice peered over his shoulder and moved towards the window. She picked a piece of wood that Hamish couldn't identify the origins of out of the draperies and turned it in her hand. "Shame. Mother will miss this chair."

_Her Father's chair_, Hamish cringed. But Hatta joined Alice, peering down at what might have been the arm...or maybe the back? of Mr. Kingsleigh's old sitting chair. "Bit small, iddint it?" He asked, looking to her.

"I suppose." Alice replied, tossing the slab to the floor.

"I said the same thing and your mother attempted to throw me from the house." Stayne drawled, kicking a nearby book.

"You know you said much more than that."

"Maybe, but I think you're missing the point. All I did was talk. Tarrant-" Stayne leaned against the wall, which seemed to be his favorite position, and nodded to the Hatter, who shot him a curious glance in return. "-has, however, utterly decimated your living area. Why isn't _he _being booted from the premises?"

"Because you started it." Alice said simply. "Hamish, would you inform my mother and the others that everything's calmed down now? It's dark out and I don't think we've discussed arrangements for our guests yet."

Stayne's "most rude of you" was ignored as Hamish nodded, eyed both of the other men in the room, and then inched his way towards the kitchen. He was loathe to leave her in their with them, but, as it seemed she was much more adept at handling the two than he (as she was much more adept at handling a lot of things than he, so long as they didn't pertain to his Lordliness, proper manners, and such), there didn't seem to be much need in him being there so he did as told.

Entering the kitchen through the still open door, he found the inhabitants gathered together tightly as though physical proximity would protect them from what had transpired in a different room. Hamish smiled reassuringly and opened his mouth, but Lowell beat him to the mark.

"Has he been restrained?"

Disapproving Lowell's choice of words, Hamish never the less nodded. "Mr. Hightopp has indeed calmed down-"

"That's not what I asked-"

"And Alice is in control of the situation-"

"There wouldn't be a situation if you hadn't brought that-"

"She wishes to discuss lodgings for her guests-"

"Those two psychopaths are not staying any-"

"And, as I said, I will be reimbursing you for the damages-"

"There wouldn't _be _any damages-"

"It's fine, Lowell." Helen interrupted, sighing. She fixed Hamish with a rather tired look, and he knew what was coming and fought the urge to bolt from the room so as not to face it. But he steeled himself, and sure enough, she asked, "How bad is it, Hamish?"

He didn't even try to fake a reassuring smile. It would have been insulting. "I'm sorry, Helen."

All of Charles' furniture, the Kingsleigh heirlooms and old hand-me-downs, pieces Helen and her husband had picked out together in their younger days and all that their daughters had grown up around and made memories with. All that made Mrs. Kingsleigh's sitting room special, a part of her life, her family, was now ripped up and scattered about a room that, alone, meant nothing.

What had been destroyed here was so much more than the expensive imported set that had decorated the Ascot's mansion.

But Helen merely nodded coolly, looking shaken but hiking up her composure well, and she strode past the young Lord out of the room, and Hamish was quick to follow (more because he didn't want to be left in the same room with Lowell at the moment, Margaret or no Margaret, for she was little defense against his righteous indignation). After a few moments of what was surely hushed conversation, the young couple emerged and trailed behind Hamish and Mrs. Kingsleigh.

Alice was getting on to Stayne again, the group could hear them even out in the hall. It didn't quiet down even once they all stepped into the room. Hamish was beginning to think that this was probably the norm with Stayne, though (much as fits of anger and destruction followed by melancholia was the norm with the Hatter), and didn't pay any attention to what they were discussing but broke right in. "Your mother, Alice."

"Oh, thank you Hamish-"

"Those two," Lowell interrupted, which merited a cross look from Margaret. He did his best to ignore it and carried on. "Cannot stay here, and I certainly won't allow these destructive hooligans to stay in the same house with my wife-" Margaret's frown disappeared in favor of a satisfied smile and slight coloring of the cheeks. "-so I think it would be best if they went on their way. It will be a bit of a rush for them to find a room for the night at the local lodgings."

_Oh, no._ Hamish sucked in a breathe and cringed, knowing exactly what was coming and dreading it. But, if it was for Alice (and it most certainly was, for he'd never do anything like this for himself, for it would be more of a punishment than a favor), well...

"Nonsense. We can't just throw out our guests. Mr. Hightopp and Mr. Stayne will stay at my estate, if the arrangement suits them."

Hamish held his nose up in the air, aware that everyone in the room was staring at him, and not in a good way. No, where there most certainly _should _have been impressed looks of gratitude and respect, there was in place instead the appearances of unhidden shock and confusion. Just _why_ did everyone seem to find it so strange that he would offer a potentially psychotic and a definitely ill-willed stranger a place in his most honorable and luxurious home?

Right. Because he was Hamish.

"Thank you, Hamish." Alice finally said, wide eyed. "That's very kind of you."

"Yes, well. We should be going then. Mr. Hightopp, Mr. Stayne?"

Stayne looked like he would say something (most likely insulting, demeaning, rude, or in some other way terribly inappropriate) but merely shrugged and strode out of the room.

Lowell's eyes followed the other man out, and held his wife closely to his side. Helen, however, walked briskly after Stayne without even a glance at her ruined home. "I'll call for a cab."

"Hamish, might I speak with you for a moment?"

He was answering before even thinking. Alice's voice had that kind of control over him at times. "Of course."

To Hamish's confusion, Alice, too, strode from the room, and he followed after her once again. He found himself in the kitchen (he was ever so tired of being in this kitchen tonight), where Alice turned to him with a face glossed with faint troubles.

"Hamish, there's something I need to ask you."

Puffing up proudly, the young Lord stood tall. "I am here to help in any way I can."

"I'm having a bit of a problem...with...something..."

"Yes?"

"Oh!" Alice twisted in agitation, obviously distressed. Hamish was still wondering what could be troubling carefree Alice so much when she huffed out an breathe and hurriedly went on. "It's the Hatter."

"...Oh?" Instantly, Hamish deflated. He did _not _want to discuss this new..._rival_ (for want of a better word, as Hamish was truly out of the running for fair Alice and knew it) for Alice's affection with Alice herself. Especially if it was disturbing her this much. Was he, as Lowell had once jokingly called him, Alice's substitute for female companionship (for Alice had so few true friends in which she confided, and even fewer of those which were female as they should be by all proper standards)? Had he truly fallen so far as a man as to be considered someone to be gone to for the talk usually kept between close womenfolk?

But Alice flashed her blue eyes at him, soft and pale, filled with worry and pleading with him, seeking advice or some such thing, and Hamish knew suddenly that he had no pride at all when it came to Alice.

His voice was steady and as consoling as it had ever been when he replied. "And what about Mr. Hightopp, Alice?"

And then she spoke to him words that made his blood curdle in his veins.

"I..." She crossed her arms across her chest and rubbed, as though cold. "Hamish, I don't know who he _is_."


	12. Chapter 12

**Wow! I had absolutely no intention of working on this chapter today, but then I updated by profile and was like, "Why don't I try to write a bit?" Hour later, chapter finished! HWOOT! It went in an interesting direction I hadn't expected - more Mally and Chess was planned, but they got shoved to the next chapter (sorry fans!). Instead, I got to spend a bit of time in Stayne's head (a very interesting place to be!) and give you guys some mysterious plot hints ;) Hope you like it!**

**Disclaimer: Despite the dvd/blue-ray combo sitting on my shelf beside Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and the movie's novelization, I do not *own* Alice in Wonderland.  
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Hamish stood, in stunned silence, searching desperately through Alice's face for something – anything – to make him think that he had just (once again) misunderstood this young woman. But instead he only found the most honest of sincerity.

And a touch of fear.

"You..._what?_"

"I don't know who he is, Hamish." Alice repeated, glancing at the door as though worried someone might be there, listening to her terrible confession. "And it's not just him – it's Stayne, too. I know I _know_ them, Hamish, I know I do! I can remember them both, just a bit, short memories, bits and pieces of information. But...I don't know, Hamish, it just..."

She sighed, taking a seat unceremoniously on the butcher's table (how...oh, Hamish was too mixed up at this point, he couldn't even voice his indignation that Alice would place her dress, let alone her posterior, on a table where animals were slaughtered, raw meat cut, and blood poured...just, ew...) and linking her fingers together on her lap. "They are Ilosovic Stayne and Tarrant Hightopp. The former Knave of Hearts and the Milliner to the White Queen of Marmoreal. I remember...a trial. I testified in behalf of Stayne. ...I also remember a... tea party, with the Hatter. And his fit didn't bother me. I didn't feel scared or worried or anything like that. It was like...I'd done it before, and everything was okay.

"But Hamish, I realized it when Stayne rescued me. He spoke as if he knew me so well, and he felt so familiar! The Hatter, it's the same with him. Now I'm getting worried. Who are these people? How do I know them? Why can't I remember them completely? There's so much more, I know it! But I can't...Stayne spoke of me spurning his advances, of me opposing his queen...I don't remember that. I don't remember any of it."

Alice smashed her eyes shut, her face twisting as though she were inwardly pleading with herself. And Hamish didn't know what to say. What _could_ he say? He didn't know anything about amnesia or memory loss or whatever this was, and he wasn't there, he couldn't fill in any of poor Alice's re-collective holes. What did she expect?

"But I _know_ them, Hamish." Her words were barely above a whisper, and she looked up at him, eyes clear and powerful with assurance. "I know them, like I know the sky is blue and the grass is green and that cats can talk and-"

Hamish interrupted reflexively, his habits of pomposity more in control than his preoccupied mind. But his words rang false even to his own ears as he said them. "Cats can't talk."

Alice smirked at him ruefully. "Don't be stupid, Hamish."

He wanted to argue with that somehow, but couldn't. And then he realized what exactly they were talking about. "Wait, you've seen the talking cat, too?"

"I...no...but, I _know_ – oh, this is getting ridiculous! His name is Chess! He's the Chessire Cat! He's..."

Gritting his teeth, Hamish filled Alice's pained silence (and it is only a silence so filled with Alice's pain that would ever have gotten him to speak of such preposterous things). "A rather...whispish gray thing with, ah, brightly colored stripes and a toothy grin?"

Now Alice was staring at him, and Hamish was forced not to laugh awkwardly and claim the whole thing as a joke, for he was certain he'd given Alice that same look many a time and it was probably justice being served that she should be looking at him this way now.

He expected her to think him crazy. She could have called him crazy for thinking she'd think him such.

"You've seen Chess, Hamish? Here in London?"

"Here in the house, actually, not seconds before you arrived. Talking with a, um, little white mouse in a pink dress."

Hamish laughed, and, hearing a bit of hysteria, clamped his mouth shut again.

"Mallymkun!" Alice stood up, looking much more herself than she had when they'd entered the kitchen. But the joy on her face began to fade after a moment. "There it is again. The knowledge of who they are, the certainty that I know them, that I care about them, but...nothing else. Mally brandishing a tiny sword, Chess curled up on a tree branch...and then nothing. And I don't know what to do about it. Should I ask them?"

"No!" It was out without a thought to propriety or tone or any of the things that should have been guiding Hamish in all his proper lordliness. There was only the flash in his mind, of that sad, sad man standing, destitute in the middle of his destroyed living room. It would break him, that was all Hamish could think. Alice, having forgotten the Hatter (again, his memories supplied – Mr. Hightopp had mentioned she'd forgotten him before. Wait, so this was not a new thing! Thus, if she'd dealt with it before, she must be able to deal with it again. But she could not ask the Hatter (or Stayne, for that matter, he'd take this information and run with it just to cause trouble), so she'd need to ask someone else she knew who'd been through this with her. There, that's a start!)...wait, what was he saying? Oh, it didn't matter anymore, he had a plan.

He smiled, then realized Alice was staring at him. Right, he'd just...kind of yelled at her. Time to remedy that lapse in sanity. "No, no. No. Not either of those two, at least. Now this Chess, and Mally, was it? We should find and ask them!"

"But where do we look?"

A hitch in the plan. "They were here earlier, so they should still be in the house, yes? We'll just search the place."

"_I'll_ search the place. Mother has gone to call you, Tarrant, and Stayne a hansom. You have to be going."

Hamish huffed, knowing she was right. "I'll try talking to these men tonight then, shall I?"

"Thank you, Hamish. This means a lot to me."

"Of course, Alice." She was Alice, after all, and he was Hamish; it was a given.

The carriage ride back to the Manchester estate was a rather cheerful one, filled with continuous tales and appraisals, joyous laughter and scheming inferences. Margaret was ecstatic, bubbling over with joy about her sister and the adventures of the night. Lowell barely had to say a word; mostly, he just kept his arm wrapped around his wife, watching her rapturous face with a peace in his heart that he rarely felt except in her presence. All the torturous excitement of the past few hours was almost worth it for how much Margaret was stimulated by it.

Upon reaching the house, however, his darling wife seemed to have tuckered herself out, and Lowell led her upon his arm to their room where he left her to prepare for bed...and other activities. After all, he deserved a reward after all the psychotics he'd had to put up with today, no one could deny that.

But his wife needed time to pamper herself before retiring, so he occupied himself otherwise with deciding what weapon he should be keeping on his person from now on. After all, when keeping such company and having such a sweet, beautiful, kind, naive wife, he needed to pack protection of some kind, before they were jumped, or worse. If today was any indication, Alice companions should have been locked away, not greeted with the enthusiasm the family was showering them with. Even Hamish! Well, the poor sod never could stand against Alice, so he supposed it was to be expected.

Sighing, Lowell decided a knife was better than a pistol for this situation and readied it to be tucked into his boot in the morning before making his way back to the bedroom. In the hall, he passed a looking-glass.

He did a double take, stopping to stare at it, suddenly afraid for no reason he could identify. There was nothing strange about the glass, no ghostly face or watery surface. Had he only imagined such an image earlier? He was not used to imagining much of anything, the idea disturbed him almost as much as if he had actually saw something. But it was nothing; of course it was, it must have been.

Trying to put such fanciful thoughts aside, Lowell left the looking-glass to hang as it always did and entered his bedroom, some of the few imaginings he allowed himself – those of his loving wife awaiting him – taking over his mind.

And there she was, his precious Margaret – already tucked in and asleep.

Lowell bit back a groan. So much for his reward.

Sighing, Lowell began to tug his clothes off, venting his frustration as silently as he could. He tossed his ascot onto Margaret's vanity. The wooden structure was rather large and pale, not matching the rest of the furniture in the room. It had been Helen's, a gift to her daughter upon their marriage, and Lowell had been loathe to let her keep it, but those doe eyes had won out in the end. The looking-glass perched upon the top was large and dirty, the surface uneven and uncleanable, colored with age. It was an unwelcome sight after the disconcertion he was feeling towards such things that reflected what wasn't there to be reflected.

And this one was doing just that.

The face was there again, just behind a shimmering mist. Pale as a ghost, eyes shining bright. Eyes oh so very much seeped in kindness, like his Margaret's. Was he seeing an image of his wife as an old maid? No, this was not Margaret's face, despite the eyes, and there was no sign of age upon the smooth porcelain skin. Was it a ghost, then? Some apparition meant to drive mad?

The dark lips, striking so much against he paleness, moved. Lowell heard no sounds, but the calm serenity that he had seen there earlier had disappeared. Instead, the woman seemed overcome with emotion, desperation alight in her features. He stepped closer, wondering if there was anything to hear...

Darkness swept over the sheet of glass. It cleared, an empty mirror once more, only the room around, and Lowell himself, reflected upon it.

The ride through London and to the Ascot's estate was a rather boring one, and Stayne found that the bumbling ginger that seemingly served Alice was becoming steadily better at rerouting his insults into regular conversation the longer the journey went on, making things doubly boring. He couldn't throw a scathing comment Tarrant's way with the annoying twit somehow managing twisting his words into something abhorrently normal. All his venom was lost in translation upon the dear haberdasher, and eventually Stayne gave up and began sulking broodingly in the corner of the carriage, face in his hand and good eye glaring out at the passing scenary (which was proving to be just as boring as the carriage itself. He had yet to see an insulting flower, a rockinghorsefly, or any other such commonality as Underland held. What could Alice possibly see in such a dreary and plain place? Maybe it was that she liked being the only interesting thing in existence, as it seemed she was here. That must be it. And she thought _him_ arrogant!).

Tarrant laughed, high pitched and clipped, and the sound was grating on Stayne's last nerve. He could tell that this Hamish-thing, too, was annoyed, as it was obvious to anyone with a thought in their heads, which the Hatter had none of and just went on prattling nonsensically. Stayne rolled his eyes, wishing he could hurl. He puts up all the effort to travel to this Overland and find Alice, only to discover her drowning and rush to save her (despite his better judgement. He was still angry with himself for this, and chastised himself that it had all better work out to his advantage or he was in great danger of becoming soft, which was unforgivable – and dangerous), and what was all this? This idiotic Milliner, already cozy in Alice's life in London, and little place for him and his plans. His plans. The things he had to do, the things that needed to be done...

Oh, Stayne was willing to admit his discomfort. If he was afraid of anything, he might have been willing to admit he was even a bit scared. Of this. Of what was happening, what had to happen.

He shifted, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly and sitting up a bit straighter. There was no one to defy here, though, no one to look intimidating or impressive for, no one he could prove himself against. Stayne knew well he was what Alice had termed once as a 'bully', but he was a bully being bullied, with no one to bully to make himself feel better. That had always been the way with him, with his life, and he was quite tired of it. He was free of the Red Queen, but had he merely exchanged one pathetic tyrant for another? Would this be forever what he was reduced to, some sniveling servant, when he knew – he _knew_ – he was so much more than that, could be more than that!

His charms had kept him alive for this long, a wicked tongue and a sharp sword, but would they be enough to save him now? Save him from this wretched existence he was so tired of? Or would salvation – freedom – only be found in death?

The hansom jolting, and Stayne's head smacked into the carriage wall. He growled loudly, cursing his luck, and shot angry glares at the small space's other occupants, who were staring at him looking startled. He turned his gaze back out the window, grumbling, and waited impatiently for Tarrant's ramblings to resume. They didn't. Forced to hear silence ring in his aching head, Stayne tried to turn his mind to happier thoughts; Pretty Alice (though so very small again), her fire, her future. Torturing a madman, driving the Mad Hatter madder than ever. Finding new victims, new ways of making his name feared, revered!

Until the time came. No! Even after! He would live through this, he swore he would!

Stayne was many things, many many many. He was a bully, yes, angry, mean, cruel, sadistic, narcissistic, a kiss-up, coward, determined, persevering, opportunistic, ambitious, eloquent, short tempered, violent, cunning, a liar, a cheat, womanizing, insatiable, arrogant, submissive, pathetic, persistent, manipulative, sly and scheming, treacherous, backstabbing, afraid afraid afraid afraid afraid afraid-

Scared. Stayne was so scared.

Anger flared inside him, lit by the fear, driven by it. He would not lay down and take his fate, he would fight. He would plan, scheme, manipulate, kiss-up to, cheat- whatever he had to do, _whatever he had to do._ Ilosovic Stayne WOULD _live through this_.

Because he was so, so terribly afraid to die.


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: Ich besitze, noch habe ich Geld aus der, dieser Geschichte noch die geistige Eigentum off basiert. (German!)**

**I am so sorry this took so long :( This sat in limbo for a bit till I decided what exactly I wanted to have happen next, which never occurred, so I let the characters run away with the story and it got things back on track! Hopefully the next chapter will come quicker, but I have a lot of classes this semester (finishing up to graduate) so you've been warned.  
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Hamish had left earlier that day to rid himself and his family of an insane haberdasher, only to return in the night with that same mad hatter and an additional problem consisting of a slender giant with one eye and more arrogance inflating his ego than Hamish had ever encountered (even in himself, which was quite saying something, Hamish was willing to admit begrudgingly. Being truthful with himself was something he was getting better at, though he did not like it in the least and would have preferred to remain oblivious to his pompousness, thank-you-very-much-Alice-for-bringing-it-to-his-attention). So, he had his hopes rather high in expecting his mother to be in bed once more when he allowed the two guests (the word hurt him physically) to stride past him into his house while he held the door open (he hadn't been intending this at all, he didn't hold doors for men, how had this happened?) and stood looking ruffled (the carriage ride, while free of conflict, hadn't been pleasant). He was still holding said door when he heard the squalling squeal of a banshee that he recognized with annoyance as his mother's.

He joined the crowd forming in his newly furnished sitting room (it did look quite lovely, he noted, they really should have updated it sooner) with a slow stride that spoke of no concerns or that anything was out of the ordinary, despite his mother's borderline hysteria, long-absent father's presence (it was so good to see him, Hamish truly hoped he would take this situation in hand and allow his overly taxed son an escape – and it had only been a day!), the scowling giant, and the vibrantly decorated Scotsman. Lord Ascot was attempting to calm his wife, who was hyperventilating in a high backed arm chair, while Stayne had settled himself along the new couch, appearing annoyed but at home, and Mr. Hightopp had taken another chair across the table from Hamish's mother and was peering at her with all the appearance of one offended by the utter lack of decorum being displayed before him (as though the hatter had any right).

"Hamish," his father's voice was overcome with relief (which Hamish was certain wouldn't last long). "It's so good to see you, son."

A mirror of Hamish's own thoughts, the young lord wondered if possibly his father was sharing some other of his thoughts (namely, that the other man would free him of his unwanted troubles). If so, it appeared neither of them would be appeased. "And you as well, Father. We've just come from the Kingsleigh house. It would seem you and Alice have arrived home two weeks early."

The question in his statement was apparent, one that Alice herself had pushed aside and then been forgotten amongst the chaos that had afterward ensued.

The elder Ascot nodded, weariness overtaking his features as he glanced tiredly between him wife, son, and, to Hamish's confusion, Stayne. "Yes. We hurried back as soon as we could, going so far as to leave the _Wonder_ behind in China for its refit and take a faster ship that was departing earlier – though the company on board was hardly civil. But I hope our haste has not made us too late. I wanted to give Alice some time home with her family in private first, but I wish to see them as soon as possible. Tell me Hamish, how is Helen fairing? Is it her health?"

"What of Mrs. Kingsleigh's health?" Hamish asked, brow furrowing. "There didn't appear to be anything amiss, and we spent the whole day with her."

Lord Ascot's face loosened, his eyes widening. "Really? That's wonderful news! I suppose I jumped to conclusions that, and I've never been gladder to be wrong." He smiled then, settling down onto the love seat beside his wife, who was sitting stiff as a board and refusing to take her eyes off Hatta (all the men continued to ignore her). "When Alice received that letter and then insisted we rush home, that it was an emergency, I thought first of Helen. What was the emergency then?"

"I know of no emergency, Father. No message has been sent, to my knowledge, from mother and I, or the Manchesters, or Helen, since our last correspondence, indicating you'd both be home in two more weeks from now."

The confusion was back again, and it spread between both of the Ascot men. "Then who was that message from, and why did Alice say it was so urgent? We left in the middle of an important business deal, and the _Wonder_ – Alice adores that ship, and this company means everything to her. She wouldn't just have up and left it all for no reason. Did she mention anything to you, Hamish?"

"Nothing." Hamish replied, sniffing the air fiercely in indignation (he was not used to lacking information, especially when Alice was involved. Hamish considered himself an invaluable source on everything Alice, and here he was, slighted again – how many times would it be in this single day? Perhaps he would wake up in the morning and things would be normal again...but he doubted it). "Though we didn't have much time to chat once she arrived-"

"What with Tarrant destroying Alice's mother's _precious_ living room." Stayne cut in, picking idly at his finger nails. He glanced down, running a hand along the back of a guest chair. "I must say, you're furniture is exquisite. Looks almost..._brand new_...What do you think, Tarrant?"

Hamish cringed as the milliner glanced about curiously. "It is rather marvelous," he replied chipperly, causing Stayne to smile gleefully behind his back (obviously, this man was very observant – or very used to Hatta's fits. Maybe both. And the milliner was equally oblivious.). "I like it much better than what you all had this morning. The coloring was dreadful."

Stayne barked with laughter, and both Mr. Hightopp and Lord Ascot watched him, puzzled, while Lady Ascot shot daggers at her only son (who could only think that this was not going well, not at all). Hurrying before anyone could start puzzling the situation together, Hamish said, "I have plans to see Alice again tomorrow. I'm certain we can work things out then, figure out what all is going on."

"Sounds wonderful," Lord Ascot replied, sinking in relaxation into his chair. "I think I shall turn in for the night, then. I have been wracked with worry the whole trip home so that I've hardly slept, and it's a load off my mind to know that Helen is safe. A good night's rest will do me good, I think. Dear, would you care to...?"

Lady Ascot was still glaring up a storm, eyes wide and mouth clipped shut with such pucker that she appeared dreadfully duck-faced with disapproval. Lord Ascot stared down at his wife curiously, then placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. She took it, eyes now locked on the hatter, and rose with all the stiff dignity she could muster. Hands still lightly guiding his wife, Lord Ascot led her from the room, nodding to Hamish as he went.

"You'll see to our guests, son?"

"Of course."

"Good man."

And with that, the elder Ascots retired to their room. Hamish, left alone with Stayne and Hatta, was finally free to fulfill his promise to Alice.

"Sirs." He rubbed his hands together, a down-to-bussiness gesture he learned from his father, and both looked up at him (Hatter, with mild curiosity; Stayne, with mild boredom). "If you're not too tired, I wish to speak some more on Alice and your relationships with her. I was able to talk to Hatta about it some, but I'm still very curious-"

"I don't care," Stayne interrupted, rubbing his temple contemptuously. "I told you I saved your precious Alice; isn't that enough?"

"Well, Alice mentioned you had met before, when she was a child, much like with Mr. Hightopp-"

"Please do not compare me to this ridiculous excuse for intelligent life."

Hatta narrowed his eyes. "There's no need for name calling."

"Please," Hamish said, hoping to stave off a fight (but with these two, he doubted that would be possible for very long). "I was just hoping to learn more about the part of Alice's childhood that seems to have been a mystery to us all. You both seem very important to her."

At this, Stayne actually appeared shocked, and didn't retort (a great relief for the young lord), whereas the Hatter smiled brightly (and Hamish was certain this time that his tie puffed up proudly. After the talking cat and mouse, he wasn't going to doubt anything anymore, sadly). The fact that Hamish (nor Alice, for that matter) had any idea if these two men _were, _in fact, important to her was thankfully lost on the two men, and Hamish was able to continue his plea.

"Mr. Stayne, Alice mentioned she testified on your behalf?"

Stayne glanced his one eye Hamish's way, the closed it as though uninterested. "Yes. I had been accused of stealing from the queen. Despite knowing absolutely nothing of the incident in question, Alice was called to testify. She didn't know me, had barely even seen me once before then, but she defended me."

Stayne's eye slipped open, just barely, the look on his face reminiscent, almost tender. Then it was gone, his gaze going lazy and latching onto the hatter. "Unlike this fellow, who was called to the stand and merely raved about tea and things his friends might or might not have said and proved especially useless."

"They picked me up right in the middle of my tea-"

"You're always in the middle of tea."

"Then they should have known better than to bother me!"

"She wanted to chop my head off over a poem claiming I stole some tarts!"

"You _'elped _'er chop off more 'eads than ah can rememba' fer less reason than that!"

"Gentlemen!" Hamish cut in, very, very worried this might come to blows (for both men were leaned forward in their seats, faces fierce with anger). He was also rather concerned about this talk of beheading (Stayne had helped behead people during this war their country had had? He wasn't so sure he wanted this man around Alice at all, saved her life or not). "That's all in the past now, let's try and get along – for Alice's sake. I'm certain she'd hate to see her two companions bicker so."

In all truth, Alice would probably handle their fighting better than he was, but Hamish was finding that the mention of Alice was the only thing he could use to have some control over these men, and he would use it. Both men settled back, looking miffed but silent, and Hamish felt better for his manipulation of them. "Let's talk about something more recent, then. How did you and Alice reunite while in China?"

"China?" Stayne kicked off a boot, then the next, letting them fall with a rather dirty bounce onto the floor. "I have no idea what a 'China' is. I was at the docks in this London of yours when I spotted dearest Alice go overboard an incoming ship."

"How did Alice go overboard?" Both Hamish and Hatta asked together. Stayne looked between them, less than amused.

"From what I understand? She slipped. That's what she was telling the others, I mean. She told me something different."

Hamish frowned. "What did she tell you?"

"That she was pushed."


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: My claim to the world of Alice in Wonderland is this: _ (that is to say, nothing at all).**

**What? Two updates? In the same month? What madness is this? A super amazing, awesomely motivating New Year's resolution, that's what! Forcing myself to sit down and write has turned out to be a wonderful, productive idea~ I'm sure you all agree :) This chapter's a bit shorter than usual, but it ended EXACTLY where I wanted it to, so I won't apologize. I really enjoyed this chapter (honestly, what chapters of this story haven't I enjoyed writing?), and I'm sure you'll be able to tell - it's kind of a 'everyday' chapter to me, almost a look into what could become a daily routine in these character's lives. Except the end :) More plot has arrived!  
**

* * *

Hamish was awoken the next morning, abruptly and rather annoyingly, much earlier than he would have liked and in a manner most scandalous (despite the events of the last few days, there still were things Hamish considered scandalous, and this was one): there was a man in his bed. More precisely, a mad, ginger haberdasher.

"Mr. Hightopp!" Hamish scuttled across the mattress and off the bed, pulling the strangled sheets away with him to reveal Hatta curled up on the other side like a child. Huffing severely, Hamish was struck silent for several minutes as he worked to be able to speak through his indignation. "Mr. Hightopp, what in the name of our Holy Matron are you doing in my bed!"

Hatta peered over his shoulder, almost (can you believe it!) glaring at Hamish. "Ah'm sleepin, wha' dus i' look like? Keep i' down, ya crowin cock."

And then he simply rolled back over.

Unwilling to deal with the situation, Hamish opted for the gentleman's escape and headed downstairs for an early tea and breakfast. Instead of the calm and comfort and English gent comes to expect from the longstanding tradition of tea, and getting it alone in his kitchen, Hamish found his servants huddled around the door in a tithy, and himself unable to enter.

"What's going on here?"

One of the cooks – a young girl, looking rather frightened – stepped forward and answered nervously while the others buzzed with barely suppressed anxiety. "S-sir, y-you're guest...the, the t-taller man, he's...well, he's been in the kitchens for some time now, since before we woke, and he is refusing to leave."

Hamish sighed, stepped past his cooking crew, and made his way into the kitchen to find Stayne perched on a counter, a basket of apples in his lap. He was chewing on one lazily, staring out the window. For a moment, Hamish thought he looked rather tired; a dark circle was ringing his good eye, and he blinked slowly, as though fighting to reopen them. Then his gaze turned to Hamish himself and suddenly his eye was sharp and bright again, and his voice as arrogant as ever. "Ah, boy. Good. I desire tea. Make it so."

"I am not a servant-"

"Well, you're servants aren't serving, so as the host, it's your responsibility. Make me tea."

"The servants aren't serving because you won't get out of their way!"

He took another bite from his apple, waving his free hand around in the air. "Tell them to work around me."

"Or you could just go eat in the dining room, like a normal person!"

Stayne actually smiled at that, looking at Hamish fully. "Do I look like a normal person to you?"

Exasperated, Hamish proceeded to, once again, sound the retreat and left the kitchen, and Stayne and the help, to settle in the living room, alone. He did, after all, have a lot of new information to process and very little sleep to function on, and was just not prepared to deal with any more irregularities (which his life was sure to continue to be full of, thanks to Mr. Stayne and Mr. Hightopp). He needed to figure out just what he was going to tell Alice now that he had, mostly, Stayne and Hatta's stories.

While Stayne had excused himself not too long after their conversation had begun, Hatta had been more than willing to stay up and talk about anything Alice, including his own past and any hole's Stayne had left in his story. This wasn't much help, however, in figuring out just who might have pushed Alice overboard her seaworthy transport, for Stayne himself had seen nothing, and no one else on board had reported seeing anything. The crew had been preparing to dock, and Alice had been admiring the work (she was very interesting in what what into sailing a boat, and had more than once been called down from the ratlines, Lord Ascot had informed his son in a previous letter) while keeping out of the way. No one had seen or heard anything until the splash and Alice's cries, to which Stayne had come to the rescue (something that seemed to rather baffle both Hamish and Hatta, who thought Stayne incapable of anything resembling heroics, which this seemed to be). But Stayne wouldn't be pressed on the point; he had been on the docks in London (he wouldn't say why, though this had began a bad argument most of which Hamish couldn't follow about how Stayne had gotten to London in the first place when he was supposed to be banished somewhere) and had dove in the save Alice (despite seeming no to like her very much, from the sound of it), after which Alice had insisted he return with her. Being extremely grateful, Hamish decided to let the issues go.

Stayne had mentioned, however, that Alice had seen _someone_, and felt the hands push her. He offered nothing else and had retired.

While thereafter the hatter had been extremely forthcoming with information, he hadn't been extremely helpful (unless you consider an overload of recollections, random deviating tangents, and bouts of sudden, unexplainable anger helpful). Hamish had found it interesting, if not a bit saddening (so much about Alice he didn't know, so much adoration coming from the hatter, and such a great gap between the two and him, proper Hamish of London, not the adventuring sort). He had the information he needed to relay to Alice, at least, the most curious of all stemming from encounters Hatta swore were very recent and not from her childhood at all.

Alice, a hero, a war-maiden, the apple of Tarrant Hightopp's eye.

Hamish was not certain what to do with this information. How much of this was truth, and how much the exaggerations of a madman (if any of it was at all – after all, he and Alice _had_ had a perfectly sound conversation about a talking cat the day before)? He knew that Stayne would probably be able to sort it out, but getting that man to help would be more trouble than batting a bee-hive. He hoped Alice was having better luck with finding her cat and mouse. Then he realized what he was hoping for (what he was thinking about, even!) and rubbed his eyes. Life had somehow gone completely out of his control, and he wasn't sure how much more of this he could handle.

* * *

"Margaret, really," Lowell chided, catching the boot his wife had tossed his way in her hustle about the room. "There's no need to be in such a hurry. Alice and Helen will still be home no matter when we show up."

"They could go to the Ascot's instead," Margaret countered, pinning up her hair while she used her hips to unceremoniously shimmy open her vanity drawer. "I know Hamish is very anxious to spend some time with Alice now that she's home whether he admits it or not, and Lord Ascot is always very careful about checking up on Mother."

Lowell sank back onto the bed, pulling his boot on. "They would send word to us if they did that."

His wife snatched up something from the drawer, swatted it shut, and made her way towards the bathroom while Lowell stared after her. She was barely listening to him, of course, so distracted by the excitement of spending time with her mother and sister again; and, of course, the crazy Scotsman.

Scoffing, Lowell scanned the room for his other boot. Carefully, deliberately, he avoided Margaret's looking-glass, then scrunched his eyes, swatted his knee, and brought his gaze directly to the reflective surface. He was a man, after all. He wouldn't be frightened of imagined apparitions in the night (and day). His stare was hard, determined, and the only thing looking back out at him. Grunting, he set out to find his boot again, eventually tracking it to the bathroom where Margaret was hard at work doing...whatever women folk do.

He sat on the edge of the tub, shoving his other boot onto his foot, and opened his mouth to continue his futile pleas for his wife to slow down (he'd wanted to sleep in this morning, curse it all; well, less sleeping, more just not getting out of bed until he'd gotten what he _hadn't_ gotten last night, which he _should _have, he earned it), but she was already shuffling back out of the room. Aggravated, he let his now booted foot slam to the floor and fumed silently, missing (not for the first time) the promise of easy company once his wife was away, and refusing to allow himself to dwell on it.

And quite suddenly all lascivious thoughts vanished from his mind. The woman in white was there again, in the glass above the washbasin, staring.

Staring after Margaret.

Lowell leaped up and was before the looking-glass in seconds, hands flat against the surface. There was nothing there. It was blank, cool, solid. Only his own, angry – fearful – face heaving in the reflection.

But for a moment (for one long, terrifying moment) he thought that gentle, desperate face he'd seen the day before had morphed into something fierce and cold and dangerous. And it had been watching his wife.

Unsettled (and even unconvinced he'd seen anything at all), Lowell turned away and decided he no longer was against Margaret's wanting to leave as early as possible.

"Margaret-"

His words cut off. What little air he'd been inhaling choked out. Long, thin spindles wrapped around his neck, coiling like a vice, forcing his throat closed. His hands shot up in his defense, clawing the restrictions as he jerked against the cabinetry, trying to free himself from the iron grip. Desperately, he threw back an angry elbow, and bone collided with the looking-glass.

It shattered.

Air flooded back into Lowell's chest, his neck free, and he collapsed onto the floor, gasping.

"Lowell!?" Margaret sounded into the doorway, confusion coloring her face, and picked up her skirts in a rush to sit at her husband's side. "Lowell! Are you alright? Oh my goodness, what happened?"

He raised up, unable to speak, but from the look of shock on his wife's face, he knew he didn't need to. A shard of the looking-glass lay between them, looking perfectly normal, unthreatening. It reflected part of Lowell's pale face, tousled collar, and thin, purple impressions of ten long, spindly fingers.


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer: DisclaimaDisclaymaDISCLAHMAH !**

**This chapter is, sadly, not as long as I wanted it to be, but it seemed like a good enough place to stop. Besides, I think the chapter's contents are good enough to sufficiently tick off my readers, so I feel accomplished :D More is on the way (eventually), sorry this one's so short.**

* * *

Hamish had been expecting a lot of things out of his morning; he had been expecting breakfast, which he had never gotten. He had been expecting his father to accompany him to the Kingsleigh household; Lord Ascot was swept up in paperwork at his office and left shortly after waking. He had been expecting to speak with Alice upon arriving at her home; he had instead found her already out of the house, involved in a "family emergency." He expected to try and make sense out of Alice's confusing connections (in the calmest, most semi-normal and authoritative manner he could manage); he had not expected to stand around hearing a completely ludicrous tale of assault upon Lowell Manchester's person while his half-frantic wife fluttered about to slave over his every need. Hamish, after resigning himself to fate, had also expected Stayne to find the entire situation extremely humorous, inspiring hours of derogatory banter; however, Stayne had, after hearing Lowell's recitation of events, parked himself in the dark corner of Lowell's private study and had yet to move, or indeed respond to anyone who has dared invade his brooding, for over half an hour.

And Stayne wasn't the only one acting strangely to Hamish's reckoning. Tarrant had been quite put-off by Lowell's description of the supposed woman in the looking-glass, and spent several minutes of his own rambling incoherently and with varying levels of hysteria before seeming to convince himself (of what, Hamish had no idea) and calm down to rejoin their little group with Hatta's usual semblance of normalcy.

Alice, too, had a moment where she pulled Hamish aside and expressed distress at yet another half-memory, another wisp of knowledge, of assurance, that a white-haired young woman she knew, that a looking-glass was more than just a reflection, and that there was so much more to it all, so much missing.

Something was going on here (and Hamish felt terribly, terribly uninformed).

He did, however, manage to relay the information he'd acquired through Hatta and Stayne to Alice after she had finished her confidence to him. She had not been able to locate the smoky pussy or the haughty rodent, and the stories that Hamish found most relevant to recount didn't spark any new recollections, so both Hamish and Alice went back into the Manchester sitting room disheartened (and Alice rather testy, as her upset sister was upsetting herself, and Lowell had been rather hysterical and not at all polite for most of the morning, not to mention Hamish's and Helen's initial skepticism at him being attacked by a reflection, though both were now on board, Hamish having seen enough already to doubt sanity was real and Helen being willing to believe just about anything now, seeing as she'd doubted too much too often while her daughters had grown up in a world she'd never believed in).

Needless to say, teatime was a rather drear affair.

"Maybe," Hamish said after a far-too-long silence that made him feel irrationally annoyed. "Maybe this woman who attacked Lowell – maybe she's also the one who pushed Alice."

Helen's brow furrowed. "When was Alice pushed?"

Ah. Hamish had forgotten that not everyone had the whole story. "Um..."

Alice giggled at Hamish's hesitation, looking appropriately abashed as she stifled them. "Sorry. The word 'Um'; it just...I don't know why it was funny. Sorry."

"When were you pushed, dear?" Helen asked again.

"Off her boat," came Stayne, finally deigning to join their assembly in the sitting room. "She didn't fall overboard, she was pushed."

"What?" Both Helen and Margaret exclaimed at once.

Lowell, wet cloth to his bruised neck, shrugged. "Somehow that doesn't surprise me."

"I knew this already," Hatta chimed in excitedly, like a child who knew an answer in primary school.

Stayne's face was as drawn as ever, obviously not interested in the ignorance of the people he was currently associating with (why he was then still associating with them was not so much of a mystery to Hamish, who watched the giant of a man gravitate around the room to Alice's immediate area; something he didn't like, not one bit). "I don't see why Mirana would try to drown her own champion, and there's even less of a reason for her to strangle Alice's brother-in-law, who she's never met." He glanced to Lowell. "Unless you're just generally that unlikable."

Lowell braced up for a retort, but Hamish interceded. "Mirana? Why does that name sound familiar?"

"Ahcause it be tha' name o' my queen." Hatta was on his feet, glaring darkly at the young Lord with such intensity that he cowered where he stood, shocked and afraid. "Ya not be ahccusin' ma queen o' tryin' ta hurt no one, ya hear me ya-"

"You'd be surprised, Tarrant," Stayne slipped in coolly. "Just what exactly your precious queen is capable of."

In a moment Hatta had rounded, turning his deadly eyes on the seemingly unconcerned guest sunk at the edge of the room. "Tha White Queen be peaceful, just, an' good. It wa' yer queen, ya slurvish scum, that scourched our lands an' slaughtahd tha people, with yer sword cuttin' 'er a path, ya murderin'-"

"Hatta, _please_."

Alice once again shifted her body before Stayne's, blocking him protectively from Hatta's rage and malice, something that seemed to shock both men (and, indeed, Hamish and the rest of the room, as well). Tarrant Hightopp, devoted to his Alice, stood frozen before her, hurting a hundred different ways, and it seemed that only Stayne and Hamish could see it. Stayne's face adopted smugness, glorying in Alice's defensiveness against the Hatter, lording it over the madman without a word.

"No matter what else he did," Alice spoke slowly, precisely, each word cutting Hatta deeper. "This man saved my life. Please, hold your tongue."

Mr. Hightopp's entire being slumped, deflated, back down into his chair. "Y-yes," he stuttered out, face twitching as a smile tried to find it's way through the sorrow etched there. "S-so s-sorry."

Stayne watched the Hatter gleefully for a moment more, then rested his eye on Alice. What Hamish saw there disturbed him – and made him wonder. For what he saw there was confusion, a confusion of the heart that was all too familiar to both of the London men in that room; the confusion that planted the potential for change in a man's mind, his being, his very soul.

It looked as though Tarrant Hightopp wasn't the only one who's devotion to Alice ran deep. And Hamish was liking this all less and less by the second.

"So..." Lowell, obviously feeling the strain in the room and fighting it, brought back the tense topic. "You think this...this Queen Maria or whatever is the one who attacked me?"

"Mirana," Stayne and Alice corrected together (he was watching her with wonder again, but pulled himself back to the conversation quickly). "And yes, I do."

"But why?" Alice asked, beginning to pace. "Why would Mirana want to hurt me – or Lowell, for that matter?"

"She wouldn't." Hatter spoke slowly, cautious and forlorn. "The White Queen has taken a vow of pacifism. She can't harm a living thing. Whoever did this, it wasn't her. Maybe looked like her, but it wasn't Mirana."

"Vows can be broken."

Stayne and Tarrant locked eyes again, undercurrents of hate bracing the room.

"Not without reason," Alice broke in, stomping her foot to reestablish control. "The question is still, whether or not she did it, why? Why would _anyone _want to hurt either of us?"

Stayne chuckled (it wasn't a pleasant sound to Hamish). "Oh, I could think of plenty of reasons the people of Underland would want to hurt you, my dear."

"But Lowell?"

Stayne shrugged.

Hamish snorted, bringing the unwelcome gazes of everyone in the room on him. He met them all fleetingly, nervously, then found Alice's. They had an understanding there, the knowledge that they both also knew plenty who'd want to hurt Lowell; but not anyone from this new, magical world they were being pulled into, not anyone who'd want to hurt Alice, too.

"Well," Alice finally sighed, breaking the awkwardness. "If it was the same person, whoever that may have been, who attacked me, then there must have also been a looking-glass on the ship for her to come through, correct?"

"I only ever saw her in looking-glasses," Lowell affirmed. "And she vanished when I broke the one she came through, so I think so. As much as I'm willing to believe any of this, anyway."

Margaret rubbed his shoulders soothingly, with as much doubt on her face as was on his. Overall, the room was brimming with confidence (and Hamish didn't have to wonder why; at the very least, though, he wasn't the only one suffering the effects of world-shaking revelations and general craziness).

Alice nodded firmly, crossing her arms over her chest. "Alright, then. Let's go inspect the ship I came over on_._"


	16. Chapter 16

**I just have to apologize for taking so long. The good news is I now have my bachelor's degree and lots of free time. Here's hoping that means more updates, but with me? ...yeah, probably not. I promise not to take months this time, though. **

**That being said, this chapter was hard to spit out but I did enjoy it, hope you do as well :) Also, edited the description for this story, as well as character content (but only slightly).  
**

* * *

Lowell, now no longer afraid for his life (well, maybe only a little) and playing up all injuries, was enjoying his lazy day, for his cute little wife was in a million huffs to cater to his every need, and there was no denying how lovely she was, and how he did love not having to do anything himself. And while Helen was a slight hamper on an otherwise perfect day (except, of course, the whole strangling event; he was trying not to think about that), her presence in the house was not unwelcome, and her comfort to his ruffled wife was invaluable (for he could not himself handle her woman-feelings, for he had none of his own and could not understand hers. Women may be something Lowell enjoyed immensely, especially this woman, but he could not fathom their minds, and could not at all do a thing to quell the turmoil that seemed to be haunting his Margaret, for she could not let this strangling business go – not that Lowell could, either, but at least he could keep it to himself. Or, at least, he thought he could, but he was under the impression that Helen knew he was not as alright as he was trying to convince his wife he was, for fear was not something Lowell was accustomed to feeling or hiding (affairs, yes – not fear; for Lowell was a confident man, but one that would save his own neck in an instant, that is, a coward of the finest gentry)).

So it was not at all a pleasant discovery to find a rather large, oddly colored pussy lounging on his bedspread (Lowell was allergic to cats, and didn't like them in any event, the nasty things).

"Margaret." Lowell began a slow march around his room, eying the cat with disdain. It seemed not to mind him, watching with a strange curiosity in its large eyes. The thing's mouth was so disproportionate that it almost appeared to be grinning at him (which was only further disquieting). "Margaret? There's a cat-"

"Where you calling, Lowell?" Helen stepped into the room and turned her gaze between the two occupants, becoming faintly amused. "When did you get a cat, dear?"

Lowell planted himself in his wife's vanity seat, loosening the cravat he'd been using to cover his bruises as his prickling discomfort at the animal spread across his skin. He was going to break out, he could feel it, the wretched thing. "We didn't, Helen. I'm allergic, I'd never have one. How did it get in here?"

"Must have come in when Alice and the fellows left." Smiling, she made her way towards the bed. "Such a pretty thing. What an unusual coloring."

Helen reached forward and, obligingly, the pussy raised its neck to received her scratching hand. Purring ensued.

Lowell scratched his neck. "Just get it out of here, will you?"

"Alright then." And Helen reached down for the cat, which promptly dissolved into a puff of smoke.

Helen and Lowell stood, stunned, staring at the empty spot on the bed where the pussy had been moments before, as Margaret walked in and was forced to stop in concern at the looks on her two loved ones' faces.

"Mother? Lowell? What's wrong?"

"They tried to throw me out," chimed in the cat, now hovering lightly over Margaret's shoulder. "Terribly rude, don't you think?"

* * *

"I'm sorry, ma'am," the man at the docks apologized again, looking like he'd much rather be left to his work than answering questions. "The boat your talking about already departed."

"Wonderful," Stayne muttered from behind Alice, peering around the docks scornfully. "What a delightful waste of time we just endured. Shall we continue with this pointlessness or is there some other form of benign living you'd like to inflict on me?"

Beside him, Hatta fidgeted, barely suppressing a growl. He'd done his best to behave (and Stayne has done his best to goad him into failing) for most of the trip. Why Alice had thought it was a good idea to bring them both (along with his esteemed self) Hamish was at a loss to understand. He could have stayed behind, of course, but then he would have left his Alice to wander about the Port of London with naught but two madmen for her protection, one of which was determined to incite the other to violence, and that just wouldn't do.

"Do you know where it was bound for?" Persisted Alice.

The sailor continued to fidget uncomfortably under the baleful glares of the annoyed giant, manic ginger, huffy lord, and pressing female. "I don't, Ma'am, I'm sorry."

He started to back away and was quickly intercepted by Stayne (who, it seemed, was warming up to the idea of intimidating people under Alice's orders if it meant an end to the simple act of standing around and doing nothing, as he had been), who smiled down at the worker sinisterly. (Now, Hamish was not exactly in the best of shape, and relied on his authority and rank to get him what he needed. This sailor was taller, broader, more muscular, and obviously seasoned at sea, and would normally have been something of a beastly man in Hamish's tender presence, obviously not one to put up with Alice's questioning or be put off from his duties. It was a small blessing, then, that Alice had, in fact, forced her small group of gents along, most especially their towering new friend, as his overly large exterior and smug expression over scarred tissue was absolutely the only thing keeping their informant in place). Alice stepped forward, successfully boxing in the jittery sailor.

"Then would you happen to know who would?"

The man took one last, nervous glance at Stayne, who smiled encouragingly (the effect was ghastly), before essentially versing Alice in the entire hierarchy of the London Port. In less than an hour, Alice came flouncing back to where she had grounded her red-haired companions before trotting off to Lord knows where (Hamish was still miffed about this. But, as Alice had explained, they could hardly leave the Hatter by himself while she ran about gathering information, and she couldn't trust Stayne to watch him without provoking an incident just for the fun of it, and she couldn't take all three of them with her (shouldn't she have thought of that before dragging them to the port? Not that he would have let her leave with only Stayne for company, but that was hardly the point! Insisting she couldn't leave the Hatter with her mother, couldn't leave Stayne either, couldn't take them both without someone to mediate – this whole debacle was just absurd!) as she was trying to save time and Hatta had gotten into three rows with random boatmen for no discernible reason already, and she wasn't having anymore of it. And so). A smile on her face, Alice declared her intentions.

"I booked us passage."

She looked so proud of herself, Hamish was lost as to what she was talking about for several moments. "You...what?"

"Booked us passage. Aboard a ship."

"What for?"

"To give chase, of course," Alice's face dropped, and she, Stayne, and Hatta all stared at the young Lord as though _he _were the one making no sense.

"Chase? Goodness, _why_?"

Alice's brow furrowed. "Goodness, why _not_?"

Sputtering, Hamish looked to the other menfolk, hoping for support and finding none. "So, we're just going to hop aboard some random vessel that hasn't been properly inspect, I'm sure, and chase after yet another random vessel to Heaven knows where, taking Heaven knows how long, just for a look about for a single looking-glass and then pop off again? That's the plan, is it?"

"Well...yes," Alice did as Hamish had, peering to her companions for assurance as to her idea's validity. Immediately, Hatta was on his heels in support.

"Oh, yes Alice! That sounds splendid! Stupendous! You have such wonderful, fun, interesting ideas, and I rather like this one, though I'm sure you've had other good ones before this and after this but I'm looking forward to this one in particular and...and..."

Hamish gave a sigh, watching without the slightest bit of deniability as the Hatta's bow-tie began to droop, his color fade, and his excited smile falter. For Alice seemed to have taken his reassurances with quite the opposite effect he had intended, and now looked even less sure of herself, as a man who was very apparently insane had agreed so whole-heartedly.

"I'm going to take this lovely little opportunity," Stayne slithered in, looking out across the water as though he could care less for the conversation he had elected to take part in. "To say that I am here, and you are here, and I will follow you. Lead."

Alice turned, head turning up to see Stayne's passive face. His eyes flicked down at her momentarily, but that seemed to be all it took to reestablish the lady's control. Hamish watched his precious one, his almost-sister, never-wife, take strength from this stranger, dismiss his concerns, and simultaneously break the hearts of two good men with a single look (and she had no idea, none at all).

"I'm going." Her voice was solid, her eyes crystal. Beside him, Hamish felt Tarrant almost convulse with sadness. "If you wish to remain behind, Hamish, do so. Hatta, if you wish to travel with us-"

"Us" being she and Stayne, obviously. That was not lost on Hamish.

"-then you had best control yourself. Do I make myself clear?"

"Y-you could be no clearer, dearest." Hatta replied, barely choking on his own pain.

"We won't be any trouble, Alice." Hamish puffed up haugtily, stepping a bit closer to Tarrant. "We go with you. Of course we go with you."

And this made Alice smile, for which Hamish found himself both glad and resentful (for he could hear, beside him, the tiniest whisper of the Milliner of the High Court of Marmoreal echoing his sentiments, "of course...", for it was the most obvious thing in the world for both of them, and her doubt was grating on his insides).

But all this was washed away as that champion of hearts leaned forward to grasp the hands of both her boys, clasping them tightly. "Together then."

"Together," Hamish and Hatta chimed without hesitation.

Alice released them, turned, and passing by Stayne, led the way. "I'll have you know, Hamish, that I did choose a ship with some consideration as to your needs-"

But the young lord stopped listening the moment Stayne placed his hand on Alice's back, keeping pace beside her.


	17. Chapter 17

**I think it's an eternal truth that I take forever to update, but I console myself with the fact that I'm still following stories that haven't been updated in over three years. That being said, I think I accomplished a lot with this chapter! Hurray! ACTION! I haven't really written a lot of action, so I hope it turned out okay...anyway, on with the story! And the next chapter already has a paragraph done, hopefully the motivation will continue!**

* * *

Hamish wasn't sure what exactly was the worst part of his suffering (for his sufferings seemed to be numerous as of late, to say nothing of his most recent ones, all of which were so terribly worse than what he would have considered his old sufferings, which were trifles in comparison, really): the physical act of retching all sustenance from his innards (which was quite, quite horrendous), or the indignity of said act (especially in front of Alice and her constant belligerence, or Stayne as he was known; for Hamish could take being sick in front of the boat-hands, for they were nothing – peasants, servants, hired hands, of no import – and even doing so in front of Hatta barely bothered him, because the man hardly cared, let alone said or did anything that would or should matter to someone of his standing. But Stayne! He was prone to reiterate at the most inappropriate moments all of Hamish's shames. And for dear Alice to witness him in such a state, it could damage her confidence in him!). Either way, barely half an hour out to sea, Hamish was already miserable, and was sharing.

Everyone else, however, seemed to have taken to life at sea with ease, for even the Hatter was flittering about the boat in utter delight, taking in every new thing with a sly smile that rather worried Hamish, as he didn't understand it. Alice, of course, was very used to traveling in this manner, and had settled right in with the crew and the captain, gracefully floating about with all her elegance and dignity despite rather extensive knowledge of all going ons of the lesser sort. And as for Stayne, well, Stayne had followed Alice about silently for several minutes before hauling himself up the rigging and disappearing (as best a giant can) into the crows nest (the actual lookout came scurrying down not long after, ruffled, indignant, and frightened, and would speak no word of what had occurred).

And the young Lord Hamish Ascot kept his post diligently half over the railings, just in case more of his stomach's contents should decide to go for a swim. All in all, things were looking to be quite the dreadful trip.

Much more so, when the storm rolled in.

Which turned out to be nothing compared to what came with it.

* * *

"_My_. I just dropped in to say 'hello,'" Chess drawled from his new spot on the ceiling, where he was only partially corporeal. "There is no need for hysterics."

Helen held her hand over her heart, having collapsed into the nearest chair at the pussy's appearance. Margaret, who had thrown several rather heavy objects, was now in her husband's arms, breathing heavily.

"Considering I was strangled by a woman in a mirror today," Lowell sighed rather frustratedly, trying to soothe his wife with calming pats on the head. "No, I don't expect a floating, transparent, talking cat is really anything to panic about."

Chess nodded. "Finally, someone with some sense. I do deplore, sense, whoever, so I do hope we can go back to not making any rather soon."

Lowell swallowed, not at all happy with being the only one in the room capable of carrying on a conversation with that _thing_ at the moment. "You call this making sense?"

"Are you listening to yourself? You really shouldn't."

Affronted, Lowell took this as an excuse not to reply (maybe even think up an insult – but it's hard to insult something that should be dismissed as a figment of his imagination, or a hallucination, and yet cannot be).

"Oh, boring." The cat stretched. "I should have switched with Mally and went with Tarrant and Alice. But all that water..."

"Another of my daughter's friends, I take it?" Helen finally rose from her chair, having gathered herself (it has been such a trying day).

"Oh yes," Chess replied, twisting around in the air to peer at her upside down. "Just here to make sure everything's alright for my dearest champion and her hapless hatter. And seeing as it's not..."

Vanishing in a puff of smoke, the cat swirled back into being inches from Lowell face, blinking curiously at the scarf he'd pulled around his neck. "Well, I feel it might be easier to keep a watch on Alice's loved ones somewhere I'm more..._comfortable_."

Chess' gaze rose, large and bright and infinite, meeting Lowell's panicked one with foreboding. "Have any of you ever traveled by rabbit hole, humans?"

* * *

There was absolutely nothing, not a single thing, no, that would pull Hamish from his quarters. Until the ship stopped moving, he would not be budged, he swore, for the suddenness of the storm's arrival and the chaotic rocking that had ensued had removed the last of his meals from his stomach and taken away all use of his legs whatsoever, and he would not be subjected to any further tossing about, no sir, not a bit. Instead, he would continue where he was, locked in his room, dignity thrown to the turrets of wind and rain, spread-eagle on his belly, gripping his mattress for dear life.

And he was most certainly NOT going to let Alice's continued presence on deck bother or persuade him. No, it wouldn't, not a bit.

She had her wondrous knew bodyguard to keep her from being thrown into anymore oceans, and a loopy ginger if that wasn't enough, she had no need of the young Lord's continued presence, no she did not.

"Curse my chivalry..." Hamish moaned.

It took him almost fifteen minutes to get from his bed back up to the deck, between the tossing and the turnings and the bouncing off walls and what not, and once there is was greeted by such a sight as he wished he'd stayed below, one that would haunt him so for the rest of his days.

After all that he had gone through, all the unbelievable things he'd encountered over the past few days, Hamish had still not been at all prepared for the great flash of lightning in the sky that lit up the outline of a great flying beast. The leathery wingspan tore through the swirl of black clouds, the length of neck stretching out with sizzling sparks jumping from it's mouth as it reached for the mast and sails. The terrible creature let out a thunderous roar as it zapped the nearest beam with a jet of electricity, snapping it in half. Hamish could just see, through the current of rainwater, the giant form of Stayne jumping from the falling beam to catch on the nearest section of rigging. The broken wood crashed over the edge of the ship and sank into the water, rocking the boat and damaging the railings so that even more water sloshed in.

"Ilosovic!" Alice cried out. Hamish searched desperately for the origin of her voice, and found that Tarrant had hold of her near the bow, keeping them both low and out of the way of what seemed to be a battle overhead.

The dragon circled back, it's stark white body silhouetted against the darkness.

It dove strait through the beams and rigging, taking the mast and all the sails and Stayne with it, rolling through the air and into the water with a great crash.

Alice threw herself from Tarrant's hold, screaming as she ran for the edge.

"ILOSOVIC!"

"Alice, no!"

"Alice!"

Both men charged after her. The dragon burst forth from the sea, claws and head and tail flailing, catching the side of the ship, pushing the boat up up UP-

And over.


	18. Chapter 18

**I love it when I don't take months to update, don't you? Rewatching the movie has rekindled the fire! I'm so excited~**

* * *

The last Hamish saw was the free beast lashing it's giant wings once more, banishing cloud and rain alike with an impossible gust of wind, and he was falling through the open air towards the crystal clear surface that reflected his descent. Too still, too clear for the raging sea that had been their transport. It looked, almost, like glass.

* * *

"Right this way, please." Chess drawled lazily, floating several yards ahead of the only tentatively following group. "We won't make it at all in a timely fashion if you all aren't more enthusiastic."

If enthusiasm was required to get wherever they were going, Lowell thought haltingly, then they would never get there, and he wasn't sure whether or not that was a bad thing, for he still wasn't certain where, exactly, it was they were supposed to be going. But when an ethereal flying cat sweet talks you out the front door, you do as you're told. And thus Lowell found himself with an arm around each of the two women, guiding them protectively (or, more likely, mock-protectively, because there wasn't much he could do defensive-wise with his arms wrapped around two women should they be assaulted some how, and really, he'd done it more to make himself feel better than the other way around (for it did make him feel ever-so more solid and grounded to be holding onto his wife; Helen, not so much, but that was beside the point – he was an English gentleman, after all)) across the lawn of the Ascot's estate.

The carriage ride over had been stuffy, to say the least (the floating pussy had pranced right into the waiting cab without being seen by the driver, and had taken up an entire seat because no one wanted to sit beside the thing. "You all are _ever_ so boring, did you know? I think I'll pop out for a breeze." And then he was gone until the carriage stopped. The driver had seemed confused when Lowell had asked where they were. "Didn't you give me this address, sir? And what happened to your accent?").

The cat did not lead them to the front door. Instead, he floating lazily (doing little circles and disappearing at times, only to reappear again just a bit farther ahead) around the side of the house and further off into the gardens, past the hedge maze, and out into the more untamed wilds of the farthest Ascot acres.

And still, Lowell did not know why they were following. It was illogical, senseless, to be following this impossible pussy on only the grounds that he knew Alice, and was claiming to be protecting them (normally, Lowell's argument would have started with "protecting them from what?" and went from there, but he felt the fabric of his scarf around his neck and swallowed hard. Maybe they did need protecting. Could this cat protect them? Protect his Margaret? What if that woman in the mirror came back, and reached out her spindly fingers towards Margaret's neck instead...?). Lowell kept following.

"Ah. Here we are."

The cat stopped. Still several yards away, the group of humans stopped, as well. No one wanted to approach.

Chess landed (with much poise and a bit of primping – the kind that cats do, claws to the earth, pulling for no apparent reason, as though to soften their little patch of dirt like one would fluff a pillow) neatly beside a large, slightly tilted, and gnarled tree stump, where he proceeded to stick up his tail and wave them over.

"Come, come now, humans. Out journey is not over, oh no."

The three approached slowly, with cautious, and the cat heaved a sigh.

"Fine, be slothful if it pleases you. I shall see you on the other side, whenever you deem it time to grace Underland with your presence. Don't wander off, dears."

And with that, the pussy gave a little hop and disappeared into the ground.

"Where in the blazes did it-?" Releasing Margaret and Helen, Lowell stepped forward, peering around the tree to find a large hole where the cat had jumped to. Stooping down to inspect, he found it looked dark, and it looked deep, and Lowell did not like at all the look of it.

"A _rabbit_ hole?" Margaret half whispered, half gasped, and Lowell turned to find her gazing over his shoulder with wonder, Helen not far behind, colored with almost-disbelief.

Lowell shook his head. "It's much too large to be a rabbit-"

"No, Lowell," Margaret laid her hands on his shoulder, a smile spreading across her face. "Not a normal rabbit hole. Like in _Alice's stories_. The cat, too – the Cheshire cat! Good heavens, Lowell, I think it's all true. Everything Alice ever told me...Oh, I wouldn't have believed it except..."

She trailed off and brought her hand up to her husband's neck, and Lowell lifted his chin reflexively to his wife's touch. Her fingers slid down his jaw sweetly and touched the tops of the bruises that could be seen just under the rim of his scarf.

"Lowell," she met his eyes seriously, and Lowell knew that whatever was coming, he would not like it, but he would not deny her. "I think we're going to Wonderland."

"This is going to be dreadful on our clothing." Helen tutted, standing aside as regally as she always did. She glanced back towards the house. "I do wonder if Lord and Lady Ascot realize what they have on their premises, and why no one else has had the misfortune to discover it besides Alice."

"Maybe you have to have a certain amount of imagination to find it," Margaret suggested, to which Lowell scoffed. "What? Magic is real, and we wouldn't have believed that. So why not?"

"There's no point in speculating." Taking a deep breath, Helen picked up a bit of her dress in each hand and marched to the edge of the rabbit hole.

"Mother, no!" Margaret cried, standing and grasping Helen by the arm. "It could be dangerous."

"The cat did it." Was her reply.

"Twas a magical cat!"

_This is absolutely ridiculous._

"Ladies, please-" Lowell went to rise, slipped on a bit of lose dirt, and toppled backward into the hole.

* * *

Stayne was floating (why was he doing that? He hadn't been earlier, had he?). The water was clear, serene, and the surface rippled above his head with glints of sunlight in the waves (he should really move towards that, shouldn't he?). His hair drifted about his head, his arms reached out, but his body sank deeper (it seemed ever such a tiresome effort to move). Bits of wood and rips of fabric came dancing into his view in the gentle ebb of the water (those had come from the boat, hadn't they? Alice had been on that boat).

Alice!

Jerking forward, Stayne propelled himself towards the surface and broke with a gasp, coughing up a fountain of seawater into the spray. His body, ever too big in every way, was heavy and hard to keep afloat, but he did his best as he bobbed and splashed in a circle, taking in the scene.

They were in the Crimson Sea. The familiar shoreline of Crims and towering silhouette of the Red Queen's Fortress loomed in the distance (but not to distant a distance. He could swim that far, but first!) and more chunks of wooden trade ship bobbed across the water. Two tufts of blazing hair stood out against the blue, and he ignored them. It was only the gold that mattered-

There!

She was head down, not moving, and much too far away for his liking. He began to swim desperately towards her.

"Alice!"

She swiveled in the current.

"Alice!"

Splashing alerted him that someone else had heard his cries, but Alice was still silent, a carpet of curls limp in the water.

"Stayne, is that you yelling, ya cur?"

"Good _heavens_, where's the ship?"

"Shut up, both of you!" Stayne snapped, still trying to maneuver his overly large frame against the waves. "Someone get to Alice!"

"Alice? Where-"

Realizing he was getting nowhere, Stayne stopped and assessed where the two gingers where in comparison to Alice. "Tarrant! To your right!"

Immediately, the haberdasher was flying through the water. And Stayne watched from where he was as Hatta reached her, grabbed her, inspected her.

"Alice! Alice!" Propping her skillfully upon his own appendages, Tarrant held Alice to himself and used his arms, wrapped tightly around her, to pump water from her. Like Stayne had minutes before, Alice began to spit and cough and, drenched, leaned into the hatter to hold her afloat.

Tarrant tenderly wiped the hair from her face, holding her close, pillars of support for each other as Alice clung to her savior and Tarrant clung to his, repeating her name softly, over and over, hope making each word a song.

"Alice...Alice...Alice..."

Stayne's relief at her being alive was momentary. Then it was gone, and in it's place was a hole. A chasm.

That could have been him; Stayne. Had been, once before, in London. Somehow, he didn't think his rescue of her had looked nearly so...tender. (In fact, he was fairly sure he'd grabbed her rather roughly and thrown her onto the dock, and while she hadn't been able to swim in her dress, she hadn't swallowed to much water, and coughed in up all on her own, no assistance needed. She'd looked just as beautiful then, indignant at her plight, at having to be rescued, but grateful and kind – and with no question of why, no lingering resentment or hatred towards him, what he'd done, how she used to look at him. And all the questions that had spurred in him.)

Stayne looked away. Instead, he glared up at the sky, afar at the land, into nothing.

He was back in Underland. Things were moving too quickly. If he wanted to live through this, he was going to have to be bolder. He didn't like his prospects.

"We need to get to shore," he drawled, starting off without waiting for the others.

He glanced up at Castle Crims, disdainful, but he knew it would be empty, and they would need time to gather themselves before making the long trek to Marmoreal (which is, of course, where the Hatter would insist upon taking Alice once they were recovered). With resentment, Stayne swam further to the right, directing himself towards the castle.

They reached shore in about as much time as could be expected, and Hatter helped Alice down onto the beach before settling there himself. Hamish, in a huff and with absolutely no grace, tried to bend over and catch his breath only to lose his balance and fall sideways into the sand. Stayne did his best to ignore all three of them, doing a check of their surroundings to make sure they had no unwanted company.

"What happened? Where are we?"

Hamish had picked himself back up and was now standing beside Stayne, something he did not like at all (but when he thought to make a snide comment about it, he realized the young man was staring straight ahead at nothing, just as Stayne was; which was to say, they were both staring determinedly away from where Alice was curled up beside the Hatter, and Stayne refrained from mentioning it). "We were attacked by a Jabberwocky. Obviously, we're in Underland."

"A what? Underland?" Hamish did something with his nose that resembled a grimace. "Isn't that the country you and Mr. Hightopp are from? How did we-"

"Yes, yes," Stayne waved him off, preferring to mutter to himself over babying the Overlander. "But there shouldn't be any more Jabberwocks... unless..."

Oh, no. This was moving much, much faster than he had anticipated. Than _they_ had anticipated. If _she_ had control of a Jabberwocky, then that meant she was asserting her royal authority. They would need to contend her rule soon, or else-

"Is that a...blue...bird?"

Stayne turned to follow Hamish's line of sight, and groaned. "Blasted dodo..."

Too fast. All of it. Just...too fast.

* * *

**THERE! FINALLY! WONDERLAND! *does happy dance* 54 pages later, and we finally make it to Wonderland in an Alice in Wonderland story! Sorry, needed to get that off my head XD Also, just a bit of AliceXHatter~ Eh? Eh? It's in there! Did you see it? With all this HamishXAlice and AliceXStayne floating around, it's good to get back to the main pairing, lol! Just for a second though heh heh**


	19. Chapter 19

**Wow, that was hard to spit out. But I like it :) I'm having trouble with this story because I'm working on my novel and doing this in my spare time, and the two stories are in different tenses. Still, this story is always fun! Sorry (again, eternally, and always) for taking like, a month or more a chapter . . . Enjoy?**

* * *

"Dodo?" Hamish scrunched up his face, as though this would help him see better. "Like, a _dodo bird_ dodo?"

Alice giggled, albeit a bit tiredly. "Our ship was just sunk by a dragon and we've surfaced on the shores of another world, and you're surprised at seeing a dodo bird?"

Hamish jerked his head around. "Another _what_? No, never mind, it's all magic and whatnot anyway, isn't it?"

He was getting ever so tired of magic, and it had only just entered into his life. Was nothing to make sense again? Talking mice. Floating cats. Dragons. Dodo birds. Other worlds . . .

"We should get to the castle." Stayne strode away from the group, waving them after him and in the opposite direction of the dodo bird in the distance.

"I wouldna set foot in tha' place fer nau'-"

As though anticipating this objection, Stayne yawned theatrically. "Dear _Alice_ seems to be quite put out after this whole _almost downing _ordeal, and it would seem a good idea to take her someone sheltered for _rest_. Unless, of course, you are unconcerned with Alice's condition."

Hamish frowned. The goading was starting again, eh? That little bit of peace hadn't lasted long.

Hatter rose, growling, but Alice caught hold of his coat. He paused to look down at her, and morphed instantly into attentiveness when she began to shakily stand. She smiled at him, patted his hand, and turned away in that tiny moment before the glow of adoration changed his pale face into the embodiment of joy, missing it completely (this was beginning to be a pattern with Alice and her men, Hamish noticed – and then became irrationally upset at the thought of the phrase "Alice's Men," for it was entirely lewd in his mind and he did not like it).

"Is it alright?" Alice asked Stayne, tilting her head as she peered at the looming structure not far from their gathering spot. "To just walk up to a castle and ask for a sit?"

He didn't look at her. "The castle's empty. Abandoned."

"Then why doesn't Hatta like it?"

The question sounded innocent enough, but Hamish caught that solid note in it, and so did Stayne, apparently, as his eyes slid to her coolly. His gaze rested a bit longer than Hamish (and Tarrant, who fidgeted with a scowl) thought necessary.

"Because it's the castle of the woman who murdered his family and plunged Underland into civil war."

"Aye, and you helped her, ya _slakush-_!"

"Hatta."

Tarrant bit his lip and stopped his finger mid jab, letting it hang between himself and his rival.

Alice didn't seem upset with either of them, however, and continued as though she wasn't standing between two men who most certainly hated each other more than Hamish hated cheap tea (sacrilige, to be sure!).

"Maybe we shouldn't. I don't want to stay in a place like that."

"Neither do I." Stayne turned away from them. "But do you see anywhere else? The trip to Marmoreal will be long, and I doubt you'll want to make it in such a condition."

"I'll dry as I walk." Alice replied, but it was subdued. She watched the castle with a light of curiosity Hamish recognized, and dreaded.

Tarrant glanced down at Alice, straitened himself up and looked away, then crumpled as he looked down again. "I suppose . . . it _is_ just a building . . . and you do look like you need a rest . . ."

Hamish pinched the bridge of his nose as Stayne lip curled in triumph. Could no one say no to this woman? _He _could. He'd been doing it for years (though that seemed to have been very thing that drove Alice away. Maybe if he started accepting every thing she said and stopped refusing her anything, he'd gain some spot in the competition for her heart again? No, no, it was too late for that. Besides, he'd never be able to behave in such a way _all _the time and Alice would most certainly think him mad for suddenly changing, anyway. Though being mad seemed to be a good thing in Alice's book, so it couldn't hurt, surely? No, stop it, Hamish Ascot! You're a Lord! Goodness, where _had _his dignity gone?).

Turning his eyes anywhere but at his temptress, Hamish realized that the dodo bird had gone. "Dodo birds aren't dangerous here, are they?"

"Certainly not," Hatter replied, back to his smiling self (Alice was standing very close). "Uilleam happens to be a good friend."

"Who?"

"What?"

"What?"

"How?"

"Wha- oh, never mind, it doesn't matter!" Hamish huffed.

Tarrant scrunched his nose. "Then why did you bring it up?"

"_I_-?"

Alice giggled. Rolling his one good eye Stayne, began walking again, and immediately Alice was following after him, which sparked both Hatta and Hamish forward to catch up. Alice positioned herself beside the giant man, doing her best to keep pace, Tarrant pulled up beside her, and Hamish (unable to allow himself to trot behind them like a child, for he was more dignified than that, not to mention more distinguished then the lot of them, but yet having no room to put himself beside his beloved) settled for being beside (if you could call it that; Hamish felt that _below_ would be more appropriate. Maybe he should have walked beside Tarrant instead? Oh, but it was too late now) Stayne (whom he wished would slow down, for every one of them were quickly becoming short of breath from the quick walks to match his long strides).

"Are you really alright with this, Hatta?" Alice asked.

Hamish couldn't see them through Stayne's large frame, but he could almost hear the Hatter's smile (he'd be smiling, too, if Alice was the least bit concerned that _he _was going to be alright, wandering around this God-forsaken place with a couple of crazies and dragons flying about and having just lived through a ship wreck – oh, Hamish needed a drink. Tea. Very strong tea. And a foot rub. And to not have met Tarrant, ever).

"Oh, I'm fine, really! But you've had a terrible ordeal, dreadful really, and it is most indeedly important that we get you into something dry to wear, and maybe find you something to eat, and let you have some time to recover and whatever else you might need."

"You're awfully sweet to me, Tarrant. Thank you."

Sweet _on_ you, more's the like, Hamish snorted.

"Oh, it's nothing at all."

"Nothing at all, indeed." Stayne piped in. "In your head, at least."

And it starts again. Hamish sighed.

* * *

Lowell had bounced off a bed, smack into a piano, been slapped by vines, hit by rocks, had a grandfather clock bellow in his ears, and heaven knows what else! And the nightmare had yet to stop. In fact, it was only getting worse. He was falling, falling, falling falling falling and it was terrifying and horrifying and scary and petrifying and frightening and all those other words for the adrenaline that was pumping through him at an alarming rate and making him unable to think or move or do anything but yell and flail and-

Was that the ground? Oh Lord, he was going to hit! After such a fall, he was going to hit the ground and be flattened! He was going to die!

He kept struggling, kept flinging himself about, stretching, reaching, grabbing, and – finally! – he caught hold of a rather long curtain hanging from a rod dug into the wall and slid his way down it, slowing to a jerking halt. His hands burned from the friction, but he had stopped.

Dangling helplessly what was probably hundreds of feet above the ground, he had stopped.

And he continued to dangle there (really, there wasn't much else he could do; there were no other objects near enough to grab hold of or climb to or even jump to).

And dangle there (which was much harder than it sounded. He was having trouble holding on. His arms ached, and his body felt like it was getting heavier).

And then Margaret dropped past him.

"Margaret!"

Lowell dove for his falling wife, grabbed hold of her ankle (he could see up her dress – but now was not the time!), and propelled himself forward to wrap her up in his arms. He had to protect her. There was nothing to be done about falling, but he could cushion her impact, maybe she'd be okay-

Lowell, wife in hand, slammed into the floor. And didn't die.

"Lowell, dear," Margaret mumbled into his chest. "You might want to be ready to fall again."

Still rather shocked at being alive (and, it would seem, completely unharmed except for a headache and maybe a heart attack), it was almost three moments before he really heard what she'd said, and by then it was too late.

Lowell was suddenly struck with the awareness that they were upside down. And then they fell from the ceiling and hit the floor (again?).

"Darling, are you alright?"

He wanted to yell (more than yell, really, for fear and frustration and pain were making him quite unreasonable), but, again, he wasn't dead, and his wife was looking at him with those doe eyes, and he was a man, and would not complain about something like this-

"Are you hurt anywhere? Do you need me to take a look, or maybe a massage would help?"

Well, maybe a bit of complaining (they were alone, after all, and a massage sounded wonderful- oh, again man! Not the time!).

"What the blazes just happened!?"

His wife perked up instantly, clapping her hands cutely in front of her mouth. "We fell down a rabbit hole! We're in Wonderland!"

"We're where? And how did we land on the ceiling and fall again!? That's not possible!"

But Margaret had stood up and was no longer listening. She flitted about the round room, shaking every door handle (for their were many, many doors) giddily, and then swooped back to the center of the room to a round glass table.

"Oh, Lowell, look! It's just like in Alice's stories! Oh, here's the key and the drink to make you small!"

"It does wha- now wait a moment, Margaret, don't touch anything!"

Lowell scrambled to his feet and charged at her, but she had already taken a sip from the strange bottle and was now shrinking.

Shrinking. His Margaret. Smaller than a doll.

Tiny and full of giggles, Margaret dashed towards the only door now her size in the room, dragging the key behind her. "Lowell, you'll have to drink some, too, to fit through the door! And there's a box of cake under the table, grab some for us, would you? Once we're on the otherside, it'll make us big again!"

Small? Big? Drink? Cake? Door? TINY MARGARET! SHRUNKEN WIFE!

Lowell couldn't breathe. Didn't move.

Margaret's door clicked open. "Lowell? Honey, are you coming? You have to drink that drink, dear."

Swaying slightly, Lowell picked up the bottle and, without giving himself time to question it (because if his wife was to be such a tiny thing, he would need to be tiny, as well, or he'd never have her again, and that was unacceptable, because as lovely as she was, he could not live a celibate man with a tiny wife for company), drank it. It was vile, and he coughed several times, gagging on the taste, but his stomach twisted with a more pressing matter as his body shot towards the ground.

"There you go!" Margaret cheered. "Now bring the cake and let's go!"

Dazed, disoriented, still scared witless, and feeling rather ill, now-tiny-Lowell turned, found said box, removed a chunk of cake, and followed his wife through the tiny door into another world.


	20. Chapter 20

**I would like to formally claim the title of "Slower-Than-Dirt" and just make it official, already. I have nothing else to say.**

* * *

Margaret was absolutely glowing as she took in their surroundings, while her husband did his best to stare at the ground and the ground alone, as though it would ground _him_, doubting this logic the entire time. He was standing sentry beside the door, holding it open as Margaret had instructed ("Don't want it to get lazy and just close on us, however then would mother get through?" for she was certain her mother would follow them, no matter how she had protested before Lowell had fallen) and doing his best to just _not think_, and be done with it (twasn't working, confound it all).

"I wonder," Margaret said wistfully. "If we should eat the cake now or wait until later. From what I can remember, Alice spent most of her time in Wonderland tiny, and that was normal, I think. Or was it that it was normal around the animals, which were already rather small, and she got bigger again when she'd found people...oh, it's been so long since I heard her stories, I'm so fuzzy on the details that might be important now."

"Importance is only imported on such things that deserve import, whether such things are important or imported or appropriated, so I highly doubt anything of importance is important."

Lowell jumped, then cursed under his breath. He still wasn't used to that dissembodied voice, no matter how many times the cat joined the conversation without actually joining them physically.

As though reading his thoughts, Chess' head smoked to life, blocking his gaze with it's upside-down grin, and floated uncomfortably close to Lowell's face (the feline was ever so large, while the man himself was ever so small at the moment; he'd never been so terribly afraid to be gobbled up). "You humans . . . you do so groom your fur in such appetizingly bizarre manners. It's hideously unattractive."

Oh, was he beginning to hate the beast.

But retort was saved by the telltale sounds of Helen finally arriving (and Lowell was very glad to be blocking his wife's view of the event, as Helen was much too old for this sort of thing, and the whole falling-landing-falling-landing debacle looked dreadfully painful for the matron, even if she stood and dusted herself off with as much dignity as was expected of her). Margaret rushed up beside her husband to call out.

"Mother! Over here."

It took Helen several seconds, glancing about the room in confusion, before she finally looked down and spotted her daughter and son-in-law. Lowell held his breath, but was pleased when bug-eyes where the only sign that Helen found any of this out of the ordinary as she spoke to her inches-tall child. "Margaret. I hope your trip down was much more pleasant than mine."

"Lowell protected me," she replied easily, giving his arm a squeeze (did the air always smell like roses down here? It seemed much sunnier than it had a moment ago). "Here, you'll need to drink this to fit through the door."

She pushed the large vial through to her mother, who picked up the tiny thing and eyed it warily. Sighing, she drank, Lowell turned away to give them some privacy (privacy he had not given his own wife while she had jimmied her dress about her and he had make-shift tailored his own clothing, but that was another matter entirely), and then the door was allowed to swing shut (with a disgruntled "thank you, _sir_") once the three companions and their smoky feline guide were through.

* * *

"Shouldn't we knock?" Alice commented lightly as Stayne threw the large double doors to the Castle Crims open and let them collide with the walls without a care, shaking the whole entrance whole with a loud BANG!

Stayne rolled his good eye. "_Abandoned_."

"Doesn't mean we ought to be rude." Alice shot back.

"Rude to who?" Stayne replied. "The people who _aren't here_? Or the murderer who _used_ to live here? Because I can see why you'd be worried about what they'd think."

"Are we going to have to listen to you two flirt the entire time we're here?" Hamish snapped (for he was cold, wet, annoyed, ashamed, jealous, tired, confused, having a crisis, and unable to contain himself any longer).

Alice and Stayne both shut their mouths rather quickly, Stayne looking to Alice in that way he does that Hamish _can't stand_ because he knows _he's_ looked at her like that before, still does, and the Hatter practically has no other expression when Alice is anywhere around or is even so much as mentioned.

Speaking of the Hatter, he appeared to be mumbling to himself. "I'm contemplating things that begin with the letter S. Suffocation. Strangulation."

Backing away as nonchalantly as possible, Hamish sped up after Stayne, who had resumed leading the way with his quick pace and long strides that rather left everyone else jogging after him.

"Guest bedrooms are this way," he informed them without looking back. "I assumed no one would want to sleep in the Queen's room, no matter how many comforts it offers."

"And you, Knave?" Hatter finally spoke up, though his voice was still low and rather menacing to Hamish's ears. "Will you be takin' yer old room?"

Staybe did glance back at that. "I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you."

Alice opened her mouth, watching the exchange closely, but then frowned and shot Hamish a sad little look that he clearly interpretted to mean she was doing her best to surpress her curiousity, fearful of giving her amnesia away. What did she know of this subject? What didn't she? She couldn't ask. Couldn't even venture a comment lest she let herself slip.

So it was, instead, Hamish who asked (with a great amount of forced curiousity), "You lived here, then?"

Stayne didn't answer, but Hatta did. "Aye, being the Red Queen's favorite little toy."

"Can I just get the whole story here?" Hamish insisted, glancing between the two men. "I've gathered the two of you were on opposite sides in some war here that resulted in the . . . loss of Mr. Hightopp's family but his Queen winning? And now Mr. Stayne's . . . what? Reformed?"

Both men snorted.

"Once a murderer-"

"I'm _surviving_." Stayne cut Tarrant off, though he didn't sound too concerned about his comment.

"Seems like more than that," Alice said quietly. "After all, you dove into the ocean to save me, and staying with me has gotten you attacked by Jabberwocky and in a ship wreck. Doesn't seem like my company is very conductive to surviving."

Hamish groaned loudly, and didn't care that it made every one of them stare at him because at least then Stayne and Alice weren't staring longingly at _eachother_ and making him want to both cry and vomit simultaneously. The young lord would gag himself before he'd be the cause of those two having _another_ moment (_Tarrant, old boy, _he thought fiercely, _do step up your game again, I think the dramatic sea rescue is starting to wear off_).

"Aren't you supposed to be in exile?" Hatta offered suddenly, looking rather confused.

Stayne smiled. "Oh, you remembered."

Smirking, he turned a corner and began leading them up a spiral stone staircase.

But the Hatter was persistant, despite being the last in their little lineup and Stayne being the head, meaning he had to yell over them up to his rival, his voice bouncing around irratably in the small (but elegantly carpeted) space. "You were chained to the Big Head for life, you were. How did you manage to escape that? And where-"

Hatter trailed off, pausing on his step. Hamish stopped as well, watching his perplexed face morph this way and that in an array of fear, confusion, and revulsion.

"Hatta?" Alice called, obviously stationary behind Hamish.

"If you're hear, and you're free," Tarrant raised his gaze up to the hallway at the top of the stairs where Stayne stood waiting. "Where's the Red Queen?"

* * *

The flowers, despite having been told off several times, were still grumbling at them as they passed. Exceedingly tall (for Chess had been entirely unhelpful on the subject as to whether they should resume their regular statures or not for this leg of the journey, and even though Lowell insisted they'd be faster with their longer gaits, Margaret was terrified of stepping on the rude plantlife, despite how deplorable and insulting they were being), the petalled ladies loomed over them judgingly, shooting comments to their cat-leader as though human beings did not posses the ability to hear.

"Really, Chessur, what bussiness have ya bringing such things down to Underland?"

"They most certainly aren't Alice."

"_Certainly_ not."

"Ain't got no bussiness being down here if they ain't bein Alice."

"My dear ladies," Chess purred, continueing forward as he floated upside, turned completely around to speak to them. "Alice, being rather subjective on the point of being Alice herself at times, gathers herself from others, so are not the others that contribute to the being of Alice _also_ Alices of a sort? For though Alice was not Alice, she was still most certainly Alice, and has become Alice again, so I must escort these pieces of Alice to the thing herself so as to keep Alice Alice for the time we will being needing her, you see?"

"Oh, yes."

"Yes, of course."

"You always were such a thinker, Chess."

"Such a smart one, he is. Though this lot-"

And thus, despite their seemingly agreeable moment, they resumed their banter as to Lowell, Margaret, and Helen's unworthiness and (to Lowell's great insult) their ugliness, to which Helen ignored and Margaret tried to pretend it didn't bother ("they were just like this in Alice's stories") and failed to keep her hurt feelings off her face.

She had been unabashedly excited about how beautiful their surroundings were when they'd set out, darting about, spinning in happy little circles, admiring all the giant mushrooms (fungus! She was impressed by fungus!) and rocking-horseflies (nonsense, all of it, nonsense). The flowers seemed to about drain the pep out of her. Thankfully, they were leaving those wretches behind.

Soon enough, they reached a fork in the road.

"A choice, dear humans." Chess perched himself atop the sign. "East through Quest to the White Queen's castle, or South through the Tulgey woods and a bit of Snud."

"Well, which is faster?" Lowell asked.

Chess grinned wider. "That depends entirely on how fast you go and where you wish to end up, now, doesn't it?"

"We obviously want to end up at the castle." Helen reminded the pussy. "Which way would you recommend to get there in the most speedy and safe manner?"

The cat's head twisted slowly till he was staring at them on his side. "Quest is faster, I suppose, but I much prefer to take the woods."

Margaret turned her head curiously, almost mimicking Chess. "Why?"

"Why indeed?" The cat replied vaguely, fading from existance completely, leaving them to make the decision for themselves.


End file.
